


Missing Scenes

by 7PercentSolution



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Body Dysphoria, Case Fic, Character sketches, DI Dimmock - Freeform, Do Not Post To Any Other Site, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Gen, John being Sherlock's doctor, John pining, Missing Scenes, Mycroft's Umbrella, Non-Verbal, References to Torture, Salt, Scars, Shame, Sherlock as composer, Sherlock is autistic, Swimming Pools, The Stag Night (Sherlock: The Sign of Three), Vanity, Waltzing, cross-dressing, john watson in high heels, keeping secrets from the parents, latex allergies, sensory stimulation, sherlock pining, ugly, waltz for John and Mary
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 31,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29204631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: A collection of twenty-eight single chapter-length stories that have been written in response to theFebruary Chaos 2021: Prompt Ficlets kindly set by ohlooktheresabee.Think of them as stuff that ended up on the cutting room floor.
Comments: 348
Kudos: 144
Collections: February 2021 Johnlock prompt challenge from ohlooktheresabee





	1. Secret

“We’re pleased you’re back, William.” She looks at George. “I’m just glad all that horrid secrecy is over.” 

Sherlock tries to concentrate. The parental unit’s arrival had been a surprise, and not a particularly welcome one. He has work to do, which they would know if they could be bothered to grasp the significance of what is on the wall behind them. 

“Why haven’t you come home to see us, son?” 

If there is an undercurrent of disappointment there, Sherlock chooses to ignore it. His father’s voice sounds that little bit more frail than the last time they’d spoken almost three years ago. He’d let Mycroft tell them of his plans and then make decisions about when and what to say during the mission. He’d always been better at communicating than Sherlock had ever been. 

Mummy smiles. “If we’d known you were coming, we’d have slain the proverbial fatted calf.” 

Sherlock snorts. “I’m hardly prodigal. No squandering of inheritances involved. I’ve been working while I’ve been away. or has Mycroft failed to keep you informed of that fact?”

She sighs. “He never tells us anything. Well, except that you were still alive. I’ve asked him so many times to tell us what you’ve been doing. he just makes that pinched expression and tells me that it’s a secret.”

“That’s true, and for good reason.” He keeps his hands steepled, and his eyes on the kitchen. Looking at them will only encourage them to stay and he has no intention of prolonging this if he can help it. His back is hurting like hell and he’s not about to admit it in front of them. Mycroft has promised (on pain of death) to tell them nothing about Serbia. It will only unleash his mother’s smothering instincts and raise questions that neither he nor Mycroft wants to answer. He decides that distraction is the best manoeuvre he can think of. “So, what have you two been doing?” 

After ten minutes of her inane chattering about events in the village and how she’d solved a mystery of her own when she’d lost the lottery ticket somewhere in the house, he’s lost the will to live, and can’t stop the impulse to stim, even if it is only drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. He’s zoned out for most of the gossip while thinking about more evidence to put on the wall. 

Oddly, that reference to the lottery makes him draw a connection between two of the yellow sticky notes he’d plastered on the wall. Instantly ignoring his parents, he gets to his feet, buttons his suit jacket and walks over the coffee table to examine the notes. 


	2. Allergies

"If you don't get up and stretch every so often, you're going to take root."

No reply.

John is getting used to working around Sherlock's experiment. He'd taken over the kitchen four days ago and has been hard at it, day and night. Breaks for tea and coffee, pit stops to shed the consequences, but no meals. Unlike his usual tidy self, four days' worth of stubble darkens his face and his hair is more bird's nest than the usual carefully styled curls.

This morning John had decided to be more direct. As the kettle boiled, he leant close enough to Sherlock to ensure that he was noticed when he took a deep theatrical sniff. "You could do with a bath."

"Take too long, John. This needs constant supervision."

That was three hours ago, and no matter what John's asked, the only word in reply is an increasingly frustrated " _BUSY_!" John knows that his flatmate has a habit of going non-verbal when he's this focused, so at least the one word is some consolation.

It is a worry. Sherlock's sleep seems to have consisted of brief naps, _in situ_ , head down on his folded arms; he's been using the kitchen timer to wake himself up every twenty minutes.

John's given up trying to understand what the mad scientist is up to this time. Something about acids and bacteria affecting decomposition rates, involving stopwatches and frequent samples under the microscope, counting something and sighing.

That's been an increasing feature over the past hour, as has Sherlock's fidgeting. As John deposits yet another cup of black coffee beside the microscope, he mutters, "Do I need to remind you to go to the loo again?"

Sherlock sits up abruptly and snaps off the blue glove on his left hand, and then examines the hand closely, scowling as if it is offending him.

"What's wrong?"

Ignoring the question, Sherlock gets up and stumbles over to the kitchen sink, where he shoves the offending appendage under the cold water tap and turns it on full blast. 

"Have you got some acid on it? Let me see." John snaps into doctor mode and pulls Sherlock's hand out of the water. There is an angry red patch on the area between the thumb and forefinger. "Does it hurt?"

Sherlock snatches his hand back and picks up the steel wool scrubber beside the washing-up liquid, applying it vigorously to the red patch. "No. It _itches_. Not acid, just bloody annoying." 

For Sherlock to swear is enough for John to know that this is no minor problem. He turns off the tap and takes the steel wool away from Sherlock. He says "Turn your hand over" in his best Captain Watson _you-will-obey-me_ style. 

When Sherlock complies, John sees what he is expecting —red, slightly swollen patches on the knuckles and the webbing between the fingers. Another order is needed: "Take off the other glove."

"Why?" 

John lowers his chin and gives Sherlock one of _those_ looks. He must be tired, because Sherlock complies and they both see red patches on the right hand, too.

"What is it?" Sherlock looks intrigued.

John points to the red band circling both wrists. "Obvious. Even an idiot could deduce it." He tries to hide the smirk at being able to turn the tables on the man who routinely dismisses everyone else with that comment. 

"Fix it." Sherlock holds out both hands to John. "And hurry. I have to get back to work."

John sniffs. "Contact dermatitis. You've developed an allergy to the latex in the gloves." 

"Nonsense. I've been using these gloves for experiments since I was at school and for crime scene work." 

"Precisely. You've exposed yourself so often that your immune system has finally said, ' _enough'._ It happens all the time with medical staff. Having the gloves on non-stop for the past four days and nights is just the start."

Now John narrows his eyes and looks up at Sherlock more closely. "Any signs of wheezing? Any itch elsewhere on your body? A runny nose? Are your eyes tearing up?"

Sherlock looks slightly alarmed. "Not that I'm aware of." 

"Good. Latex allergies can be lethal when they are extreme." 

The kitchen timer goes off. "I have to get back to work."

"Acids without gloves? I don't think so."

"But, _John._ I can't stop now."

There is more than a whiff of whine in that voice, but it doesn't stop John from shaking his head. "The allergic reaction can take one to four days to develop to its full effect. Hives are next, conjunctivitis, trouble breathing, low blood pressure, even anaphylaxis. If you develop a full-on latex hypersensitivity, we'll have to get rid of every trace of rubber in the flat. You won't be able to use most glues, and won't be able to touch things like elastic bands, touchpads or keyboards that use rubber. And you'll have to wear a bracelet alerting medical staff. Otherwise, the next time your antics end up in A&E a simple bandage could end up with you going into shock."

"I _have_ to wear gloves for The Work, John; I can't be on a crime scene without them." 

Definitely a whine, with a new undercurrent of panic thrown in for good measure. "Right. Head for the bathroom. Strip off and examine yourself. Take two antihistamine. I'm going to solve the occupational hazards of your profession, but I can't do it immediately, so this experiment is heading for the bin."

The next day, Sherlock is sat at the kitchen table, looking at the four different pairs of gloves that John has just deposited. The doctor points at the first one. "Nitrile; you won't like it because the cheap ones you get at the chemist won't be tight enough fitting to give you the tactile sensation you want. Cheap, but not cheerful in your case."

"Next up, vinyl. Won't cause an allergic reaction, but tend to make your hand sweaty."

Sherlock's lip curls and he pushes that pair away.

"Next up, isoprene; this pair is powdered, which you may or may not like."

As soon as he pulls one glove on, Sherlock rips it off. "No. That feels awful."

Rolling his eyes, John says, "How did I know you were going to say that? Such a fuss-pot. Okay, try the last pair."

Sherlock picks up the cream-coloured gloves and slides the right one on. "Ooh… easy to get on. And they fit."

"Yup. Like a glove. SensiCare PI Surgical Gloves have a special inner coating to make it easy to get on, without powder. These are a size eight for people like you who have hands the size of spatulas. "

Sherlock glares, offended at the barb. He slips the other one on and admires the effect, twisting and manoeuvring his hands about. Then he picks up the packet they had come from and rubs it between his gloved finger. "Thin. I can feel things properly."

"Well, a surgeon needs to feel, so aren't you lucky? The other good thing is that if they get torn or punctured, there's a blue powder inside that will tell you to replace them immediately. There's only one drawback."

"What's that?"

"They are single-use only and they cost a fortune compared to the stuff you've been using for years, stuffed into your coat pocket." 

Sherlock is admiring the gloves. "The Rolls Royce of crime scene accessories. Anderson will be green with envy."

John nods. "Thought you'd like them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latex allergies are serious and effect 8-12% of all medical professionals, given their routine exposure. It often develops in adults whose work involves regular glove-wearing and other forms of contact. And it is serious enough that those who are diagnosed with hypersensitivity have to carry epipens. Hospitals are trying to eliminate latex from the environment. A lot of stethoscopes, for example, have latex and can cause a reaction, as can the adhesives on bandages. Latex particles are shed when medics strip off their gloves after using them, meaning that the air itself can become contaminated enough to trigger a dangerous reaction in those suffering from hypersensitivity.


	3. Storm

As Mycroft crossed the threshold of the Diogenes Club, he stood on the rush mat and dripped. From the knees down, his trousers were soaked and clinging to his skin like something foul. His brogues actually squished, water oozing from the uppers above the soles.

A smile of commiseration on the face of the concierge appeared, but no words came forth to ameliorate his sense of being totally drenched.

_Serves me right._ He'd made the foolish mistake of walking from the Cabinet Office on Whitehall to Carlton House Terrace. It's usually a pleasant stroll —out the west end of Downing Street to avoid the press and the _hoi polloi_ tourists gathered at the iron gates, turn right onto Horseguards Road, then cut across to the leafy paths of St James' Park, cross the Mall and then up the stairs. It's only a half-mile on foot and normally takes about five minutes.

Today, however, the storm that had been threatening London all morning decided to break overhead just as he left Downing Street. The English have many phrases to describe the varieties of rain that plague its island, but "stair rods" or "cats and dogs" doesn't begin to cover today's downpour. More monsoon in fact, with a beastly high wind as well.

The concierge offered to take his coat. The velvet-collared covert style is a sartorial British classic, and this one had been made-to-measure by his tailors, who'd used the best British fawn wool whipcord cut to show an elegant, waisted silhouette. While somewhat shower-resistant, from the waist down it's now dark brown, soaked through by the torrential rain. Even the pockets of his suit felt damp as he shed the coat into the gloved hands of Wilder.

The livered man raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question, looking at Mycroft's umbrella.

After a stern shake of the head, Mycroft walked down the corridor, knowing without having to see it that Wilder would be staring hard at the trail of water being left on the carpet, dripping off the unfurled umbrella. There is no way he would ever leave this umbrella in the club's cloakroom; who knows who might walk off with it, mistaking it for one of the other fine products of James Smith& Sons umbrellas, London's leading makers since 1830. His is a "special", designed to his specifications and a one-off.

Admitted to the corridor by a touch of his chilled fingers to the reader, Mycroft was greeted by his PA, whose shocked look tells him everything he needs to know about his appearance.

"Oh dear." The club's silence rules do not apply down here in his inner sanctum.

"Yes, precisely."

"Right. I will leave you to change and then come with a nice pot of tea in say ten minutes. In the meantime, shall I see to your umbrella, sir?"

He nodded. "Thank you. And check it carefully; I think one of the ribs may have been bent in the gale."

As he made his way into his office and the spare suit, shoes and tie that he keeps there, Mycroft knew that she would be removing the umbrella's dripping canopy of top-grade Italian nylon from the shaft's outer sheath. The fine Toledo steel sword would be wiped down and carefully oiled to ensure it did not rust. Then she would unscrew the sword from the fine Japanese Whangee bamboo handle and dry the concealed pistol, ensuring that no rust or moisture interfered with the firing mechanism.

By the time she entered his office with the tea tray, Mycroft was dry, dressed and his sense of order was restored.

"Good news, sir. Although the rib is bent, James Smith & Son are couriering over the spare within the hour and will take this one back to mend it. They did say something about trying to avoid inclement weather in the future or, dare I say it, using another umbrella should you venture out again in the storm."

His raised eyebrow was the only reaction possible to such an outrageous suggestion.


	4. Dance

Assuming the proper stance, Sherlock presses the play button on the remote in the pocket of his cashmere dressing gown. Lifting his arms into the hold position, he counts off the beats and begins to move.

He's slowed the waltz down to a funereal pace, because anything faster means John will trip over his own two left feet and end up dumping Mary on the floor in front of the wedding guests. Even so, he still worries that his composition might prove too challenging, so he's been making last-minute adjustments.

The all-too-brief tutorials that he'd given John had been challenging; such close proximity and physical contact had made John a little uncomfortable. Sherlock had been able to feel that tension radiating through John's hands, so warm in his own, and on his back.

The height difference had flummoxed John at first, making him mutter, "Thank God, she's not a bloody giraffe." As if he needed yet another reminder of how John prefers everything about Mary to what little is left of his affection for Sherlock.

John's embarrassment about his ineptitude didn't help the tutorials. John doesn't like being made to look a fool. The anger that always seems just below the surface these days had boiled out, even if on this occasion it is aimed at himself.

Mind you, Sherlock has always known that John's principal emotion is anger. He might have mislaid that memory while he'd been on the hunt against Moriarty's network, but it had come crashing back to the front of his mind as soon as he'd crossed the threshold of the restaurant where John was about to propose to Mary. The memory — and the emotion it invoked in him — had been enough to make him sidle into that ridiculous impersonation of a French waiter. Yet another social disaster to add fuel to the funeral pyre of their relationship.

As Sherlock completes the three basic steps forward and then starts manoeuvring the phantom Mary into a natural turn, he hopes that the rising notes he's inserted will remind John to lead her into it. He has a sneaking suspicion that Mary knows how to waltz, could have even managed a faster Viennese waltz, but has been playing down her skills so as not to embarrass John even further. She does that, Sherlock has noticed, concealing some of herself in order to fit in more with what John likes.

As the choreography they'd agreed on continues, Sherlock knows that he is equally guilty these days of that same sin. The early days of knowing John had all been about impressing him with his genius, gathering up the man's initial praise and amazement as if he was a bee getting drunk on a flower's nectar.

Since his return, however, that's all gone now, flowers burned up by John's anger, and any praise at all is stilted and forced. Well, he's earned that rejection; Sherlock knows he has no one to blame but himself. Planning the wedding is his repentance and atonement for the sin of doing what he'd done to John. Some days he wonders if the months of nuptial preparations are a form of torture worse than Serbia had been. At least there the wounds had healed; the scars had formed.

He knows that his ambivalence is showing in the tune he's composed. He'd started out cheery enough but half-way through his composing had become more sombre, almost melancholic, despite his best efforts. Maybe he shouldn't switch the key? For some reason, he'd started in the key of C major, but it had tripped of its own accord into the minor. If he keeps the whole thing in C major, it would be more cheerful.

He's conflicted about the music and about the event he is trying to commemorate. He wants to be happy for John. Isn't that what a best man is supposed to be? Isn't that what a best friend should do?

_To hell with it._ He'd composed it to reflect the way he felt about the whole thing. John and Mary may be in celebration mode, but in the end, he can't be.

He keeps going through the waltz steps, taking in the change he'd made at the very end, to accommodate the dip. If it ends up sounding more like a dirge than a wedding march, so be it.

_At least the music is honest, even if I can't be._


	5. Choose

"I'm starving. Thai, Indian or something else?" John waves takeaway leaflets at Sherlock.

"You choose." It's Sherlock's stock reply, trotted out every time he is asked this.

"No, really. What would _you_ like? There's no point in me ordering in something to have you look at it as if it were something disgusting." 

"I really don't mind what you order. It doesn't matter to me."

John sighs. "I don't get it. You're damned fussy about a lot of things but blasé about food. No, I'm wrong; it's more like totally _disinterested_. You treat eating as if it weren't essential. Why?"

The question puts Sherlock in a quandary. How much should he tell John without telling him _too_ much? His newish flatmate and colleague (mustn't dwell on _that_ mistake in Wilkes' office) has not asked him point-blank about the autism, so he's highly reluctant to lead John in that direction. "It's just fuel for the transport."

"Sherlock…" John puts one hand on his hip, which Sherlock has learned means he's not going to be put off by his attempts to deflect the conversation. The doctor continues, "You're always telling me you're a scientist. Surely you know something about nutrition."

Sighing, Sherlock glares briefly in John's direction, avoiding direct eye contact. "Of course. But unlike you, I am not driven by my appetite to eat at every possible occasion as you seem to do."

As if proving a point, John's stomach lets out an audible rumble. The doctor stifles a giggle and snarks, "Well, my digestive system is telling me something important."

Sherlock shakes his head. "It's called _borborygmi_ , the sound of air moving in your intestines, not your stomach. You are giving the classically conditioned response to the idea of eating, so your system is responding by preparing. Your stomach excretes acids; the enteroendocrine cells in the mucosal lining of your gut secretes hormones which regulate metabolic processes governing insulin and glucose, fat storage and appetite. We only hear the noise because right now, your intestine doesn't have enough solids in it to muffle the noise."

John looks at Sherlock like he's sprouted horns. "Thank you, _doctor_ Holmes. And all that is because my brain is telling me to _eat_ because I need to keep all those bodily functions fuelled. Why do you think you're immune?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Didn't medical school training teach you anything? Appetite is a function of brain chemistry, John. The word appetite comes from the Latin _appetitus_ , meaning "desire for." It's a complex chemical reaction that is coordinated by several brain areas associated with reward processing such as amygdala, hippocampus, ventral pallidum, nucleus accumbens and striatum, and others. In my case, I do not see food as a reward, so do not respond."

"Low blood sugars signal the need to eat in most humans for a damned good reason. Without nutrients, you die." John drops onto the side table the takeaway menus and smiles. "But what do I know? Maybe what's running through your veins is green, and I'm sharing the flat with an alien."

The comment might be snide coming from someone else, but John delivers it in a way that Sherlocks thinks is almost affectionate. That surprises him enough to make him want to respond. "I've been told when I was a child, I refused most foods, would only eat chocolate cake and biscuits. Oh, and sausages, but only a certain brand. Yet, here I am. I survived."

That makes John smile. "I can imagine the scene, with Mycroft demanding twice the amount you were getting. Is that why you always ask him about cake?"

"He was a greedy child, the opposite of me. I'd have two bites and say I was full, then get nagged to finish everything on my plate. Mycroft was _always_ hungry. He'd finish off what I left behind. As long as Mummy didn't see it, it was a win-win."

Now John is smiling. "So, should I start looking for a takeaway service to deliver chocolate cake and sausages?"

"I'm not a child, John. That said, most food repulses me. So why should I inflict my preferences on you?"

"Do you have preferences? I mean, I know you don't like some stuff – yoghurt, okra, cooked spinach. But apart from strawberry jam and ginger nut biscuits, I've never seen your eyes light up about any food."

Sherlock shakes his head. "If people don't stress me about it and put food in front of me, I will eat a wider range these days. Taste buds are less sensitive in adults than they are in children. So, I meant what I said. You choose. If it's convenient and I can muster some enthusiasm by the time it comes, then I will eat. If not, I won't."

"Okay. Just answer me this. You delete the solar system but keep all this stuff about digestion on that hard drive of a brain. Why?"

"The Work. The chemical stages of digestion affect stomach and intestine contents; both are key to identifying time of death."

"Well, to ensure you don't end up on a mortuary slab having your emaciated gut poked and me getting the blame, I'm ordering Indian tonight."

"Fine by me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ASD children and adults often have unusual relationships with food. The sensory impact of taste, texture, temperature, sight and smell can overwhelm individuals who have SPD. When ASD children do find foods they can tolerate, they will often refuse any other. Adherence to routine can mean that even the dishes and implements must remain the same, too. All of it is part of neuroatypicality that can affect some (but not all; everyone is an individual) person's relationship with their body. It's called interoception, the brain's ability to interpret data from inside their organs, muscles, skin, bones, etc. in a way that enables someone to feel things like thirst, hunger, fullness, itch, pain, body temperature, nausea, need to urinate or defecate, and sexual arousal. Additionally, interoception plays an important role in how we feel emotions. It also influences executive function, that is, taking action based on what we need. If we feel cold – we get a sweater; if we feel the need to urinate – we go to the bathroom; if we feel anxious – we seek comfort; if we feel frustrated—we seek help. Interoception underlies our urge for action. If we feel that our internal balance is off, we are motivated to act, to seek immediate relief from the discomfort caused by the imbalance. If this neurological feedback mechanism is differently wired, then it is not surprising the ASD individuals may do these things differently.


	6. Power Outage

"So, how do you think he did it?" John is scanning his eyes around the inside of the vault, lined with the safety deposit boxes, every one of which is pulled out from the wall and gaping their emptiness.

"That is what we are here to find out, John. The pronoun may be a _she_ , by the way."

"Okay. Equal opportunity criminals…still doesn't answer the question."

They are in the vault of Osmond & Sons, a private bank whose offices on the Strand shelter the assets of some of the wealthiest families in Britain. It's the sole survivor of the private deposit banks which were established in the 17th and 18th centuries. Owned and directed by members of the Osmond family since it was founded in 1672, it has not stinted in its investments in modern technology.

This vault is three floors below street level and supposedly proof against any attempts to break in. Yet this morning, it had been opened to the scene that Sherlock and John are now seeing. It is no surprise that this case had come not via the Metropolitan Police, but rather from Mycroft. After all, the Sherrinfords have been clients of the bank since shortly after it was founded. His instructions had been clear. "Discretion, Sherlock. I need to remind you that there are secrets that no family would willingly share with the police and the outside world, least of all ours."

Sherlock stirs from one particular box he'd been examining. "It is _the_ question, John. A vault can be considered the ultimate locked-room mystery."

They'd spent the morning discussing with Venetia Osmond, the current Managing Partner of the bank exactly who had access to the vault and investigating alibis. The twelve and a half hours of IT and camera records of the previous night had been painstakingly reviewed by them without result, nothing registered as an unusual disturbance. It had taken Sherlock and John the rest of the afternoon to examine what had taken time to winkle out of her — the list of the clients whose boxes had been ransacked — which might help them understand a motive.

At five, when the bank had closed and the regular employees have gone home, Sherlock asked the three who knew about the vault to remain upstairs while he and John checked the vault again. They'd been left here, the heavy vault door barely ajar, to determine how anyone could have managed to do such a thorough clear out of the one hundred and sixteen safety deposit boxes, without having all the owners' keys.

At his request, Venetia herself had re-locked box 112, to which Sherlock had the second key, given to him by Mycroft that morning. She'd left her master key with him, saying rather forlornly that there was nothing left to steal, so it wasn't a risk. She and the other two would be in the boardroom upstairs trying to work out how to inform the clients in a way that would not utterly destroy the bank's reputation. "Any help you can give me on that, Mister Holmes, will be gratefully appreciated. Apprehending the criminal and finding the stolen contents would be the best outcome."

John peers over Sherlock's shoulder as he inserts a different shiny brass key into the lock that Venetia had locked at their request before leaving them to their work. He waggles it about a bit and then thrusts it fully into the lock. Nothing happens. "Good. That proves that the master lock can't be opened by a bump key."

"What's a bump key?"

Sherlock smirks. "Also known as a rapp key. Did you know that making ten such keys, each slightly different from the other will open ninety per cent of all household locks? Burglaries are _so_ ridiculously easy these days."

John is appalled. "How… I mean, why?"

Sherlock smirks. "Blame it on locksmiths. It was a trade secret, a bump key was often made at the same time as the master key, tailored to be used to pull the whole cylinder free from the box. If the internal mechanism of a lock is damaged or fails, the bump can be used to pull the whole thing out. It worked until criminals cottoned onto it. Miss Osmond said all of the master locks were upgraded after 2006, and this is proof that all of these were opened by a master key." 

Sherlock is now examining the second lock of box 112, to see if there is any evidence of it being picked.

"So, what was in Mycroft's box?" John can't help his curiosity.

"Don't know. He's got a safe at Parham and another one in the Diogenes Club for all those state secrets he works with. Maybe he uses this one to keep his favourite cake recipe."

They share a giggle at that idea as Sherlock continues his work, positioning his lockpicks at the entrance to the second lock. "Set the stopwatch on your phone, John. I'm ready." He's about to time how long it takes to pick the second lock on the box if the first lock has already been unlocked. That should prove decisively that the thief had a master key, which Venetia had sworn was in the possession of only three people: herself, the security manager and the bank's chief cashier, all of whom had excellent alibis that had checked out. They are also the only three employees who are aware of the vault theft; none of the rest of the staff had been told, and none of them had access to the vault in any case.

"It's the whole point, John. Restrict access to three keyholders and have a double key system. In theory, it means that no bank employee with a master key can get access to the box contents unless the owner is present. And similarly, no client who is left alone in the vault can get into other people's boxes. It means we have three prime suspects. Despite the alibis, any one of the three could have loaned their key to the criminal overnight."

"Aren't there, you know, _devices_ that can pick a lock in seconds?"

"Of course, John. They're called snap guns. They use a primary law of physics —the transfer of energy — to burst all of the driver pins out of a lock cylinder without sending the bottom pins into the gap. The driver pins are thrown out of the cylinder body entirely, up into the lock housing. The good news is that a snap gun damages the cylinder in the process, and there is no sign of that happening on any of the master locks here."

"What about the client keys? Would they have the time to pick all of these individually or have they been damaged by this snap gun?"

"No sign of that in the locks I have examined so far. Doing it by hand takes time, exactly how much time is what I am trying to test here. And whoever he or she is, they're good. Fast and with strong fingers to keep it up all night. No bump, no snap, just good old fashioned manual lockpicking. He flexes his fingers. Positioning his picks. "Start the clock."

Twenty-eight seconds later, John watches as Sherlock turns the master key at the same time as the pick. There is a satisfying click, and Sherlock pulls open the drawer. As he turns to smirk at John, the lights go out.

John's phone, still showing the stopwatch, lights up the darkness. "What's happening?" he asks.

Before he can answer, Sherlock's eyes become fixed on a point over John's shoulder. There is a solid thunk of metal against metal and then a series of further clunks. John spins just in time to see a metal bar move across the door and lock into a socket in the wall.

 _"Shit!"_ he shouts and rushes towards the door.

A second beam of light comes to life behind him as Sherlock gets his own phone out. Then he is beside John, using the torch app to shine over different sections of the circular door.

"Are we locked in?" John tries to keep the panic out of his voice. He's not claustrophobic, not really, but the idea of being locked in somewhere is deeply distressing.

"It would appear so."

"Did it shut on its own, or did someone pull it shut?"

"The latter, I think. There's no automatic closing device on this model which would be activated by a power cut. Some more recent models do have that function."

"Okaaay. Let's think this one through. Will we run out of air?"

"Of course not. Bank vaults have ventilation. They are not airtight." The baritone coming out of the darkness has taken on a gentler tone rather than its usual scathing dismissal.

"Can you get us out?"

"Unlikely. This vault is not a recent design, unfortunately. Some have an escape mechanism should anyone get locked in by mistake. This one is not such a design."

John is swiping his phone, getting out of the stopwatch app. "No signal."

"John, don't waste your battery. There is never going to be a signal twelve feet below ground encased in armour-plating. Anyway, it's a security feature to stop anyone using the safety deposit boxes to communicate the contents outside. They block phone signals on purpose these days."

"Great. So, how long are we stuck here?"

Sherlock switches off his phone. His disembodied voice continues, "Time locks, John. They are always independent of keys. It won't release until tomorrow morning. All bank vaults are fitted with them these days, so no one can take a bank employee hostage and force them into opening it at night."

"Will a time lock still work if the power's off?"

There is a hum of a yes. "Batteries. Three separate systems designed to protect the vault."

"And us?"

"We are not in danger, John."

"Then why the _hell_ has someone locked us in here?"

"To give themselves time to get away, of course. There is something in here that is going to incriminate the perpetrator and they are assuming we will find it. So, they've cut the power, locked the door and will use the time to escape."

oOoOoOo

Eleven and half hours later the door rumbles open. John is first through the door, closely followed by Sherlock. If they are moving a little less fluently up the stairs after spending the night sitting on a cold metal floor, neither chooses to comment on it.

Sherlock is in the lead by the time they get to the boardroom door, and he is momentarily annoyed to find it locked. John's shoulder charge splinters the wood around the lock and a swift kick that must have felt satisfying after being held at bay overnight opens the door.

Bound, gagged and taped to two chairs are Venetia and the bank's Chief Cashier.

As John rushes over to free them, Sherlock announces "Well, by process of elimination we now know who the culprit is; the question is who will be able to catch your security manager, given the head start he has?"

"I can answer that, brother mine," says a voice behind them.

Mycroft enters the boardroom. "Geoffrey Saunders was stopped at the gate of Heathrow's last flight out to New York City. And in his possession were certain bearer bonds belonging to a Russian oligarch. He confessed to being blackmailed by the oligarch's bodyguard, who had been holding Saunders' mistress hostage. She was the one who had provided Saunders alibi, by the way, which you took at face value." He tilted his head, looking down his nose at Sherlock. "Really, Sherlock. She must have been convincing when you spoke to her on the phone, but she did have a gun to her head at the time."

Sherlock's annoyance brings him closer to his brother. "I smell something rotten in this room and I think I am about to hear it now."

Mycroft shrugs. "While you two were asleep in the vault, we freed the hostage. The bodyguard who turns out to have had a history with the FSB as a safe-cracker is in our custody, and in exchange for being given asylum, he agreed to hand over all of the stolen materials. They're being recovered from his employer's attic in Kensington."

As John finishes removing the duct tape from Venetia Osmond's legs, he says to her, "Did he hurt you? Do you want me to call an ambulance?"

"Heaven's. NO! The fewer people know about this the better." She rubs her wrists and waggles her feet in the air to restore some circulation before attempting to stand. As she stumbles to her feet, John moves onto the Chief Cashier, a middle-aged rather portly figure. Venetia is shaking her head. "How on earth are we going to be able to get the recovered contents back into the right boxes?"

Mycroft smiles. "You can leave that to me, Miss Osmond. I can assure you of the absolute discretion of the security services. No one of your clients will be aware that there is anything amiss. Well, apart from the Russian oligarch who will now be deported for serious money-laundering offences."

"Christ," she mutters. "I really need the loo" and rushes out of the boardroom. Sherlock spins on his heel to glare at his brother. "You….you _planned_ all this? In order to get the dirt on this man, and how many others?"

"Sherlock. I am shocked that you could even suggest such a thing. All's well that ends well."

The way he says it, together with the smug look on his face, tells John everything he needs to know. As he finishes releasing the cashier from the chair, checking one last time that the man is not in need of medical assistance, John helps the man to his feet and guides him towards the door. "A visit to the Gents would be good for you, too. Before the other workers get here."

John turns to the two Holmes brothers. "We weren't asleep, Mycroft, though Lord at times I wished I had been. I had to endure eleven and a half hours of your brother lecturing me on the subject of bank vaults, locks and how much he admired the man who had picked one hundred and fifteen locks in the vault in eleven and a half hours, not to mention three centuries' worth of history about how bank vaults have never really been as safe as people want to think they are. But then, I guess you'd know all about that, _wouldn't you?!"_ John puts as much anger as he could into that question, for being used as a patsy on one of Mycroft's operations.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Apologies, John. You two needed to be seen as on the case so that the man would run. However, I should have anticipated the trauma Sherlock would inflict upon you. Tedious, I know. He can bore for Britain on the subject of bank robberies; it's one of his special interests. Still, think of it as a necessary sacrifice for the good of the nation." 

John is flexing his left hand, wondering how to reply to that, when Sherlock sniffs.

"Come, John. This is one locked-room mystery that we just solved. Mycroft did it."


	7. Cereal

"Damn it, Sherlock! We're out of milk. _Again_. What the hell do you do with it? Take baths in the stuff?" You turn away from the fridge to glower at the man sitting at the kitchen table, toast poised near his mouth. Looking at your flatmate's perfect alabaster skin, you wonder if in fact milk is his bath-time secret.

Sherlock puts his toast down carefully. "What is your problem? Why is it necessary for your peace of mind that there be milk in the fridge every morning?"

You give a rude gesture in the general direction of the oversized mug filled with cereal, "It's obvious. So obvious that even an idiot should be able to deduce it."

Sherlock sighs. "There's plenty of orange juice left. Just use that. You drink a glass of orange juice almost every day when you come home from work, and you never complain about running out of it."

"Maybe that's because you don't like orange juice, which means I can calculate how much I've got left," you snark back at him. Slamming the fridge door closed, you stomp over to the mug and lift it back up to the cereal box, spilling crumbs as you try to put it all back from whence it came.

Sherlock has finished his toast and delicately wipes his mouth with a paper napkin. "I mean it, John. Why not put juice on your cereal? Online sources say that up to a fifth of all Americans put OJ as they call it on their cereal instead of milk, although why they would want to name a juice after one of the most notorious murder trials in recent history beats me. Reduces their fat intake or something, which allows them to think they can consume yet more junk food. Orange juice counts as one of their five-a-day, so it makes them feel virtuous."

You snort. "The nearest you get to five-a-day of fruit and veg is the occasional strawberry. I swear I have no idea how your metabolism works, but takeaway and black coffee does not equal a balanced diet."

Your barbs make him narrow his eyes. "We're talking about _you_ , Doctor Watson, not me. Put orange juice on your cereal and stop shouting at me."

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes. "Right, Sherlock _chemistry-is-my-middle-name_ Holmes, here are a couple of facts about why that's not such a good idea. First of all, cereal has lots of good fibre. And orange juice has vitamin C. On their own, fine. Put them together and it's a recipe for gastric distress. That's because the digestive enzyme needed to break down the starchy carbs in cereal is actually killed by the acids in orange juice. What happens next? Bacteria in your gut gets to work on the badly digested carbs, making it ferment. You know the rest."

"Hmmm. Flatulence and diarrhoea." Sherlock looks up. "Then why do so many Americans still do it?"

"Maybe genetic selection makes their guts capable of digesting the sort of crap they eat over there. Don't know, don't care. I'm more concerned about living with a milk monster as I seem to be doing." You grab two pieces of bread and shove them into the toaster. Sitting down at the table while you wait, you give him a glower. "And let's talk about the chemistry of sogginess. Full fat milk, which you insist on having, is what most manufacturers assume people use to soften the dry ingredients. That means it won't go to mush. But, add a low-fat acidic liquid? Yeah, chemistry doesn't lie; the cereal goes soggier much faster." 

"Oh."

The toaster pops and you get up to butter your toast before it, too, goes cold and soggy.


	8. Sceptical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of the cases that Sherlock solved at the beginning of The Six Thatchers.

Detective Inspector Dimmock is not having a good day. The media attention on his latest case is merciless, accusing the police of being inept and slow to solve such a gruesomely bizarre murder.

He's not even sure it is a murder. All he's got is a limbless torso found in a trunk at the Left Luggage office of Waterloo Station. The trunk had been wrapped in plastic —a common enough feature these days to stop airport baggage handlers from thieving contents. When a week had passed without it being collected, the staff had tracked the smell down to the trunk and taken the plastic off, unleashing the smell of decomposition followed by a call to 999.

The LHR luggage label had turned out to be a fake, as had the ID taken from the person who had checked it in four days ago. Dimmock's just re-interviewed the young woman who's told him that the clerk who handled the receipt of the item had left the company after checking it in, and, no, she didn't have a contact number for them. "It's not like this is a great paying job," she'd complained, "So when something better comes along, people leave all the time."

She'd also confirmed that the airport scanner that they use checks that stored luggage items are not carrying explosives, unidentifiable metal objects or liquids. She'd cracked her gum and shaken her head, "Nah, doesn't sniff out dead bodies." 

Dimmock is now on the pavement outside Barts where the post-mortem has just been finished. According to the pathologist, the victim is a white male, approximately thirty to thirty-five years old, in what appears to have been robust good health. The limbs had been removed by a circular saw, after the victim's death. No, there was no discernible cause of death, according to Dr Molly Hooper. No injection sites, no evidence of poisoning that she can find, no organ damage. All she can say is that the death must have happened no more than nine days ago, based on the decomposition she's found. Without a head, she can't use dental work to ID. Without a hand, no fingerprints. There are no implants or prior medical procedures that could give her a clue. "I'm sorry, Detective Inspector, but there's no means of identifying the body other than the fact that he'd had tattoos removed by laser some time ago."

In desperation, Dimmock has got his team sending photos of the torso to all the ink shops in London, even though the tattoo removal work could have been done anywhere in the UK or abroad. One by one, the constables have been telling him that no one in London can identify the laser work, although several have complimented the work. "No scarring, just the faintest of hypopigmation where the skin has a lighter patch where the tattoo had been. Can't see the original design, so no help there" had been one comment.

As a last-ditch attempt, Dimmock had sent the morgue photos to Sherlock Holmes an hour ago. The case might be weird enough to attract his attention.

The DI really doesn't want to get back to the office to be faced by his team, so he decides to walk back. Maybe the half-hour will help clear his mind.

oOoOoOo

Fifteen minutes later, Dimmock is on a WhatsApp video call with Holmes, expressing his doubts about what the man is telling him.

"Dimmock, look in the lymph nodes."

"Why? There are no arms left, Holmes. It's just a torso." Dimmock is not bothering to hide his scepticism.

"Yes. You may have nothing but a limbless torso but there’ll still be traces of ink left in the lymph nodes under the armpits. If your mystery corpse had tattoos, the signs’ll be there. Because tattooing leaves traces in the body other than on the skin. Tell Molly to test the nodes. The ink residues will tell us something about the country of origin. If it's as I think it will be made from organic pigments, deionised water and something called hamamaelis water, free from animal by-products, then it's going to be a chemical match to Eternal Ink, made in New Zealand."

Holmes must be able to see the expression of disbelief on Dimmock's face. The DI stops walking long enough to look straight at the phone screen. In the background behind Holmes, Dimmock can hear voices —a man and a woman are talking. He snaps, "And…?

"Use your brain, Detective. There is a circus in town, performing at the O2. It's a New Zealand company. Perhaps a magician got carried away when sawing a person in half."

"Bloody hell! Is that a guess?"

"I never guess."

The call goes dead and Dimmock is left standing in the street, staring at his phone in sceptical disbelief.

A week later, John Watson's blog post appears:

**The Circus Torso**

A limbless body found decomposing inside a trunk in left luggage office in Waterloo station couldn’t be identified... 


	9. Velvet

"How was I to know? Pubs are not places I usually frequent."

John looks up from the menu. "Yesss, well….This is _not_ a pub. It's not a wine bar. It's cocktails only. Tha's gonna screw up your calu…cu….culations."

If he's more than three sheets to the wind, well, it is his stag night and so far it has been…interesting. Yes, that's the word. Better than horrifying, which is what Mary had suggested it might be. But John knows that Sherlock would never have agreed to do something involving other people. To be honest, it suits John these days. He's promised Mike Stamford that there will be a proper knees-up with him and John's old mates from his army days and of course a few old rugby pals. Once the honeymoon is over and once Mike is back from his year as a visiting fellow at the Mayo clinic.

Sherlock doesn't drink much, hates the noise and confusion not to mention the sort of clientele that visits pubs, so John knows the stag night is way out of his best friend's comfort zone. That he'd suggested it at all had come as a surprise, and John hadn't had the heart to do anything other than accepting.

God, the amount of research that Sherlock is putting into the best man gig is nothing short of frightening. The first four pubs had involved beer, precisely calculated and delivered by Sherlock in graduated cylinders to ensure that they can make the full journey of venues nearest to where the bodies were found in their casework together. "I'm told that pub crawls with a theme are more successful", he'd pronounced in great seriousness.

John can only thank God that Sherlock had chosen body dumps rather than something more conspicuous. In their previous stop — the _Moon and the Stars_ in Camden — another stag-do had been in full flow, with a half-dozen lads bare-chested wearing braces and hard hats singing along to karaoke.

Silly costumes avoided, he and Sherlock had been reminiscing over the case details, as they became ever more inebriated. Sherlock had held up a finger in admonishment when John had got up to go to the bar and get a second round. "I've calculated very carefully, Jawn…" He must have realised that he'd slurred his words. It had tickled John; an inebriated Sherlock becomes rather endearing.

So, John is prepared to forgive him for this location. Clearly a gay cocktail bar, with peculiar lighting and a dance floor. _Priscilla's_ has made an effort to amuse, even if the photos of drag queens and silver trailers on the walls went right over the head of the world's only consulting detective. What the man was missing in terms of cultural history can still surprise John.

Getting his blurry vision to focus on the menu, John solemnly pronounces "Black velvet."

Sherlock gets that funny little set of creases between his eyebrows, the one that shows him confused and not afraid to admit it. He didn't do it when John had first moved into the flat, but he's come to rely on John to explain the inexplicable to him, mostly when he's missed some social clue or other. A flush of warmth envelopes John at the thought that he's been able to get Sherlock to relax, to trust him that he won't abuse such a confession of ignorance. It's sweet.

"What's a fabric got to do with us?"

An exaggerated shake of John's head. "Not clothing." Although the thought of Sherlock in a black velvet smoking jacket suddenly takes hold of his mind's eye. It would emphasise that alabaster skin, the dark curls…

"John? Are you alright?"

Sherlock's question brings John back to reality, who continues, "Cocktail, not smoking jacket. Black velvet is the closest thing to beer on the list. Guinness —tha's stout by the way — and champagne."

Sherlock's smile blossoms. "I can calculate that! Champagne is twelve per cent alcohol; what's Guinness?"

"Don' know," John admits. "I'll ask the bartender when I order."

It turns out to be 4.2%. Sherlock nods eyeing the glass. "Did you watch him make it?" When John nods, Sherlock asks, "Proportions? Half and half?" while pointing to his phone. "That's what the recipe calls for."

John nods again, watching Sherlock do the mental arithmetic to recalibrate the evening's drinking schedule. "You're amazing, you know."

To his surprise, Sherlock blushes. "It's just maths, John. Not a case." He takes a sip of the drink, and his eyes widen. "I like this! Tastes better than the lager you like."

John giggles, "The Case of the Drunken Best Man".

"I'm not drunk, just inebriated. You're the smaller of the two of us, so blood alcohol levels should be higher for you than me."

John laughs. "Tolerance levels… you forgot to factor those in. I can drink more than you with less effect."

Sherlock laughs, one of those big uninhibited laughs that John rarely hears, but always appreciates. "Like Jason Jackson, remem…" a belch interrupts before Sherlock continues, "…ber? He mis…cal…cu…lat...ed the dose because he forgot his eleven times table."

John laughs, too, remembering the case. They swap stories about it as the cocktails slide down.

Sherlock is left looking at the bottom of his champagne glass a little forlornly. With the exaggerated caution of someone who is drunk, he puts the glass down and asks John, "What's the connection between this and a smoking jacket?"

Lest the alcohol loosens his tongue and leads him into an explanation, John downs the dregs of the black velvet cocktail and says, "Isn't it time we moved on? Wha's the next place on the list?"


	10. Handle

The package is sitting on the Victorian recliner chair in the entrance hall of 221b. Even from where he's standing at the coat hooks, he can see the red warning labels — handle with care— on two sides of the brown paper wrapped box.

Behind him, John comes through the front door, shutting it fractionally harder than might be warranted. Sherlock waits to be told what has irritated his flatmate.

"Someday, just once, Sherlock, you might be the one to pay the damned cabbie."

As John hangs his jacket up with a little more force than usual, Sherlock can judge the degree of his agitation: annoyed but not peeved.

_Good._ "John, are you expecting a parcel?"

John's eyes follow his down the corridor to the chair. "No. Are you?"

"No."

"Well, if it was Mrs Hudson's, she would have taken it into her flat. Left out here, it must be for one of us."

"She normally takes them upstairs."

John shrugs, "Maybe her hip is bothering her again, or it's too heavy." He starts down the hall to pick it up. Sherlock catches up, passes him and says, "Wait. Let me take a closer look." He bends over the box, turning his head to see the address label. "It's for you."

John's brow furrows. "Nobody ever sends me parcels. Are you thinking it's something suspicious then?"

Sherlock carefully picks the package up, turning it around so he can look at all the sides and then lifts it up to look underneath. "No return address label. The address label is the sort used in a home printer, using a standard Microsoft label format. Notice it doesn't put Doctor in the address title. Received any death threats recently on your blog?" He gives the box an exploratory shake but there is no sound of contents moving about inside.

"Is that wise if it is something explosive?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "The British postal service will have done the equivalent of kicking it across the room without it exploding, John."

"It says, _handle with care._ "

Sherlock snorts. "That's like asking them to double the kicking. Anyway, the sorting office machinery that handles 90% of the post can't read that label; it will be treated with the postal system's customary lack of respect for fragility."

"Heavy?"

Sherlock holds the box, shutting his eyes for an instant before announcing, "About three hundred grams. Not heavy, but not particularly light. Too big or bulky for a padded envelope or large letter, so then a small parcel sent through a local post office…" He peers intently at the smeared stamp, "the location of which is not identifiable because it was raining when it was taken from the post office to the van. No franking machine, brown paper and ordinary cellotape, so probably covering a box that has been re-purposed from something else. Therefore likely to be from a person rather than a company."

"Why would they use a printed address label? Why not just hand-written?"

"Interesting question. Perhaps the person who sent it has illegible handwriting. Or doesn’t want their writing to be recognised _."_

"Have you ever been sent a parcel bomb?" John's question is quiet but firm. "Should we get the police to look at it first? Or your brother's people?"

"It's addressed to you, John, not me. If someone wanted revenge on me for solving a case, they'd address it to me." Sherlock moves the box closer to his nose and takes an exaggerated sniff. "OH!"

"What?!" John's spine straightens as if he is expecting trouble.

Sherlock beams. "I know what it is. Upstairs now and put the kettle on. We will have it for tea if there is anything but crumbs left."

oOoOoOo

"Very tasty, Sherlock. Shame about the broken bits."

"Yes, well I have always told Mummy that sending biscuits through the post is an exercise in futility."

John tips a few more of the ginger nuts from the box onto the plate. Ignoring the powder of crumbs that fall out. "What I don't understand is why your mother sent them to me, rather than to you."

"For the same reason she disguised it with a printed label; I would have recognised her handwriting and opened it immediately. She's also deliberately smeared the ink of the village post mistress's stamp so I couldn't guess it."

John narrows his eyes. "So how is sending the box to me going to change anything?"

"This way she would hope you'd get to eat at least a few of them, instead of me taking the whole lot."

"Ah. Your mother knows you well. She's good to think of me."

Sherlock reaches across the table to pick up another biscuit. John slaps his hand and growls, " _MINE."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers familiar with my work will see that this story stands "outwith" my usual universe in that Mummy here is alive and able to bake cookies. Well, forgive me for the lapse, but as someone who tries to send homemade biscuits through the postal system, I know this experience all too well.


	11. Swimming

"What is it with you and swimming pools, Sherlock?"

Lestrade can't resist giving Sherlock one of those exasperated looks of his. Usually, it's the result of not being able to quite follow a line of rapid-fire deduction, but this time, he's more worried than confused. The crime scene is secure, even if the suspect has managed the impossible, slipping through the police cordon around the house.

Greg has been struggling to make sense of these crimes for the past two weeks and getting nowhere. First, it had been simply a side-show to the Welsborough death, the one where the son had died in his car and been hidden until the fire. Back then, he'd dismissed Sherlock's odd reaction to the bust being smashed. But then another two owners of identical busts had been burgled: Mohandes Hassan and Dr Barnicot in Holborn. When Harker had been murdered over two more busts being smashed, Lestrade was more than annoyed by the fact that Sherlock seemed to be keeping something from him.

Not to say that this reticence is new. But ever since Sherlock had returned to London after the new year broadcast of that weird message from Jim Moriarty, the Consulting Detective's been almost frantically engaged in any and every case he could get his hands on. Greg has been in the odd position of having to _queue_ for Sherlock's attention, competing with Dimmock and Hopkins.

No matter how many times he's asked Sherlock to keep him informed when he goes haring off after suspects, tonight had been yet another reason why Greg regrets that John Watson is now married and living away from 221b. If John had been here as back-up, the hostage situation might not have arisen, and they'd have the suspect in custody. Watson is handy with a gun, something Greg had realised the very first night he'd met the doctor.

Sherlock seems oblivious to the fact that he is standing there completely soaked, an ever-widening puddle forming under him. Greg hands over a towel and the Belstaff, both of which he'd found in the storage cupboard alongside the pool. "Put this on, you'll catch a cold."

After he mops his face and slips into the coat, Sherlock asks "Sandeford and his daughter safe?"

"Yeah. We got them out. It would have helped if you'd warned me ahead of time you were doing this. You're just damned lucky that we worked out he was the owner of the last bust here in Britain. I was already in Reading when Sandeford called the police to tell them that two intruders were fighting in the pool and that gunshots had been fired. You'll have to give a statement to the officer in charge; this is way out of the Met's jurisdiction."

Sherlock nods. "As far as they are concerned this needs to be a simple case of me interrupting a crime in progress. The less Sandeford and the Reading police know about this, the better."

Greg shrugs. "What they don't know won't hurt them?"

Sherlock nods but does not elaborate.

"Come on, Sherlock. Gimme; what the hell is going on? Who's doing this? What are they after? What's inside those busts?"

"Not what I expected. Not who I expected."

"Yeah, about that. I can't remember you letting a suspect get the better of you. What happened? How did he manage to slip through our net? We had the house surrounded."

"He's a professional. Dangerous and armed."

"You know who he is? Give me the details and I'll put out an alert."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I can't give you a name or his history. I just know he wanted to recover what he put into the bust when it was being made."

Annoyed, Greg snaps. "So, did you at least see what he got away with?"

"You can tell Hopkins that it isn't the black pearl of the Borgias; she's wrong about that."

"Thanks for telling me," Greg puts enough sarcasm in his voice that he knows even Sherlock will pick up the clue that he's annoyed. "So, what is it?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't have the answer to that question."

"Damnit, Sherlock! The last time you were so obnoxious about sharing what's going on was…" The penny drops. "Oh, shit. Is it Moriarty again?"

"This whole case has been designed to tease me, lure me in. It's been what I've been waiting for, ever since the broadcast."

"Moriarty's _dead._ I saw the body on the roof."

"So did I."

"How could he have faked it? Are you telling me that you weren't the only one to walk away after fooling everyone?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "I don't know."

"That scares the hell out of me."

"Me, too."


	12. Salt

The intersection of the A406 onto the M1 at Staples Corner is normally one of the busiest junctions in north London. A complicated series of slip roads channel east and west traffic onto the northbound motorway, while a similar cloverleaf drains the flow coming south into London. Tonight, however, on one of the coldest nights of the year, it bears more resemblance to a car park than to a motorway. With traffic blocked up on the North Circular for more than two miles in both directions, Sherlock's taxi driver is challenged to get him anywhere near the crime scene. Side roads into a housing estate eventually put him in a position to hop a fence, scramble down a wooded embankment, dodge the two lanes of heavy but still crawling southbound traffic, and get onto the now empty northbound carriageway.

In the darkness, the police cars' blue lights are competing for his attention with the flashing yellow lights of his target: a Highways England road gritter.

"Glad you could make it, Sherlock."

The Consulting Detective sweeps straight past Lestrade, using his pocket torch to catch the glitter of freshly scattered rock salt on the road surface. Bending down for a closer look, he can see that the usual pinkish-brown grit has another colour mixed in, darker clumps.

"Yeah, it's blood. Forensics tested a bit." The DI's words vapourise in the freezing air. "Driver noticed in his rear-view mirror when he passed under the street lamp. He kept going a bit until he got on the motorway proper and then the spreader mechanism jammed."

They walk to where one of the police car's headlights has lit up the back end of the gritter machine. A lump of something the size of half a baguette that looks rather dried out is on a tarp being photographed by a Forensic Officer. Sherlock leans over and after a moment or two says, "forearm, human, in case you're wondering." The woman looks up startled. "Oh. Thank you. I hadn't gotten that far yet."

Sherlock looks up at the truck. "Anybody had a look inside?"

Lestrade calls out, "Jacobson, got anything yet?"

A head pops over the edge of the truck. "No sir, whatever else may be in here is buried pretty deep."

Sherlock is on his knees, fingering the grit. "Is there a brine tank on this machine or is it being spread dry?" he asks, scooping up a handful of grit.

The DI gives him an incredulous look. "You… _know_ how road gritters work?"

"Of course. Where's the driver? He'll be able to answer, even if you can't."

Lestrade takes him over to the driver's side of the big yellow vehicle, where the door is wide open. Inside, the driver has his head bowed over the steering wheel, his shoulders shaking. The DI calls out, "Come on down now. We've got a few more questions."

He's a big man, mid-forties or so dressed in a high vis jacket and trousers, well-insulated against the cold, and a wool beanie to keep his head warm. Right now, however, he looks distraught. "I've been drivin 'er for three years. Best machine ever, never blocked up on me before, so when it 'appened, I pulled over and took a look."

"That's your vomit I smelled?"

"Yeah; I …stepped on that thing, and then realised what it must be."

"Where's your depot?"

"Watford Gap. No problems on the down run; it only jammed when I started back up northbound."

"Mixed with brine?"

The driver nods.

"Top fill?"

"Yeah. It's one of the quickest. Not like the salt domes up north." The driver seems to be relaxing a little, as Sherlock's questioning had the feel of professional to professional, rather than the sort of accusatory style of the police.

"Why don't you go sit in the back of one of those police cars and get warm. You can phone the depot manager and tell him to send another truck so commuters tonight don’t hit black ice. You'll be stuck here for a little while longer and then be asked to drive the gritter to a police compound for further examination."

Once the driver is in the back of one of the cars, Sherlock opens his gloved left hand and lifts it to his nose. Lestrade watches with increased horror as the consulting detective licks a bit of the grit.

"God, Sherlock; that's gross!"

"Useful, Lestrade. By what my tongue is telling me, this is something called thawrox+, a rock salt mined in the UK, most likely in the Winsford salt mine in Cheshire. It's got an additive which is a by-product of the sugar-refining process, which makes it less corrosive to steel and aluminium, and more free-flowing. It also isn't as hard on the asphalt road surface. My tongue can taste the salt and the sugar, which is key to its origins. Think of it as saving on lab fees and time."

"So, any ideas on what's happened here?"

"More lines of enquiry than definite answers, at least until the contents of the gritter are excavated and any other body parts are found."

"What should my people be looking for?"

"Not a job for the police. Forensics might have a stab at it, but that piece of the forearm will confuse the hell out of their standard analyses. Salt complicates things."

Lestrade rubs his gloved hands together, trying to stay warm. "So, what are you thinking might have happened?"

"I don't like speculating without data."

"Come on, Sherlock; it's effing cold out here and I need something to warm my brain up."

A sigh that creates a wreath of fog, then Sherlock is off. "There are several possibilities. A dismembered body could have been dumped into the mixture as the sugar solution was being added to the raw rock salt, or it could have been dumped into the truck that carried the thawrox to the depot at Watford. The top-fill means the driver wouldn't have known, and the grill over the top of the vehicle is closed after filling, so it couldn't have been added to the gritter once it left the depot. So, the driver is not a suspect.

"More likely, however, is that you're not going to find any other body parts in there."

"What?! Just half a naked arm? No clothes or fibres? Why would a murderer do that?"

"Who's to say that this is a murder? You forget that rock salt has been mined on and off at Winsford since the 19th century. Back in the early days, miners used candles and set explosives to free the material. Sometimes gases built up, explosions happened and killed miners. Or just maimed them. A miner who lost an arm could easily survive as an amputee. This could simply be a body part that has been preserved in salt for centuries."

Lestrade's shock is evident. "How? I mean, surely it would decompose?"

Even in the dark, Sherlock's eye roll is obvious. "Salt —it's been used for millennia to preserve and mummify human bodies. The Egyptians made it into an art form. The grit used on roads is just rock salt, the remnants of the dried-out seabed. Even a quick glance showed me that the arm has signs of serious desiccation. If it's old, then it won't be possible to identify it by DNA; the salt breaks the helix chains. Tell them to look for trace elements of explosives. If they find it, then it's likely to be 19th century and not a murder."

Lestrade looks back at the gritter. "What if they find the rest of the body?"

"A strange place to hide one given it would obviously be found, but the post-mortem would reveal more about the cause of death. It didn't look like a proper dismemberment; the arm looks more like it was torn off."

Sherlock shivers and rubs his gloved hands. "Nothing more for me to do here tonight, Lestrade so I'm off home before the roads get worse. If tomorrow proves me wrong and there is more to this case, then give me a call." He strides off into the darkness, back the way he had come.


	13. Boss

"I'm tired and fed up." Sherlock stares at the muscle-bound hunk between him and the solution of the case. "So, get out of my way or else."

The man is taller than Sherlock and as wide as a fridge. His icy glare is equally chilling. Cracking his knuckles and then folding his arms, the guard sets his stance, feet apart, taking root on the spot.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He shouts: "I know you're in there, Gjoka. Call your guard dog off and let's talk."

The muscle man smiles, revealing a set of gold teeth. "Not home to you, skinny boy. You deal with me."

"Nope, you're a minion." He pops the p for emphasis. "I talk only to the boss."

" **Ju qij!"**

"Fuck off yourself." Sherlock translates and throws in a rude gesture, hoping to provoke the man into taking action. He's had enough trouble over the past four days and nights, staking out the head of the Albanian cartel dealing with the London end of the supply chain. He's a man on a mission to do a deal that will protect at least one small piece of London from the sort of gang warfare that is fuelled by the drugs supplied by this bigshot*. At last, tonight the man had left his heavily manned HQ in a rather boring modern house behind high walls in Limehouse

It was rather predictable of the man, given that today is Valentine's Day. He'd already seen a dozen roses and the chocolate box being delivered to the wife. He's imagined the boring candlelit dinner in the company of the wife who is not dissimilar in size and girth as the man who is between him and Gjorka.

When the electric gates opened to spew a BMW with only a driver in the front, Sherlock had switched on the motorbike he'd borrowed from Greg* and set off in pursuit. They ended up here, at a very up-market set of flats in Canary Wharf at what Sherlock has deduced must be home of the Albanian's mistress.

She must not like the usual entourage of gun-toting heavies that surround the drug kingpin, so Gjoka has brought just this one to keep an eye on the door. That may also be because Gjoka's wife doesn't know about her husband's paramour, so the fewer of his people who know about this love nest, the better.

Despite the verbal provocation, the minion is still standing there, immovable.

Annoyed, Sherlock takes two steps back down the hall and grabs a posh decorative metal ornament off the wall and takes it over to the radiator. Banging it against the metal over and over again, he counts on the fact that the noise will be carried into every apartment on the floor, if not the entire building.

Predictably, it takes only seconds before a door pops open down the hall and a head leans out to shout, "Stop that ruckus now!"

Sherlock smiles maniacally and bangs harder.

"I'll call the police!"

"You do that," Sherlock replies, continuing to bang. The outraged resident slams the door. Someone else further down the corridor shouts through their door, "Stop that noise; I'm trying to sleep!"

Perhaps it was the threat of the police that did it, but the muscle man is now moving at last. He snarls, "Stop that."

"Make me."

When the huge arm reaches for him, Sherlock ducks under it at the same time as he lashes out with his right foot, connecting with the side of the man's knee in a satisfying crunch. The leg and thigh to which the knee is attached maybe the size of tree trunks, but a knee is always the vulnerable point in a big man, even more so because the knee carries so much weight. As the guard stumbles, Sherlock brings the metal artwork down across the side of the thug's head and he drops like a stone.

After checking his pulse, Sherlock slips a plastic tie around one hand and pulls the two wrists together behind the big man's back. He's so muscle-bound that it's hard to bring them together but with a savage yank, he manages it. The plastic cuts into the man's flesh. As he strides back to the door, he calculates that he has about ten minutes before the circulation restriction causes serious damage.

_Plenty of time._

The door is locked, so Sherlock unrolls his lock picking tools and gets to work, mildly surprised that all the noise out in the hall hasn't alerted the flat's occupants to the fact that something unusual is happening. He assumes that whatever the Albanian gets up to with his mistress must be more interesting.

Finally, the door opens and Sherlock steps into the flat. Moments later he is pushing open the bedroom door to a totally unexpected scene.

Gjoka is naked, all four extremities are manacled in leather and tied firmly to the corners of the four-poster bed. He is wearing a leather hood and a ball gag. As a young woman in full dominatrix gear turns to stare at Sherlock, her whip hand stops in mid-air. It's a rather exquisite and very real riding crop with a heart-shaped end that she is wielding, with some evidence of her intentions already clear in the shape of red welts across the man's buttocks.

"Happy Valentine's day," Sherlock says, whipping out his phone and starting the video.

Tossing her long red hair over her shoulder, the mistress bats her eyelashes at Sherlock. "Two's company, three's a _party_." She turns back to Gjoka, purring, "Honeybun, why didn't you tell me you were bringing such a gorgeous man to join our fun? After all this time together, you're finally giving me a proper Valentine's gift!"

Gjoka is frantically shaking his head and trying to say something, but the ball gag is getting in the way.

She slides off the red satin sheets, striding up to Sherlock. Long legs in black hold-up stockings, a pair of Louboutin stiletto heels, a black satin bustier with little red hearts on it, she looks the part. "Why don't you put the camera away and get comfortable?"

"He seems a bit worked up."

She shrugs, "Albanians. The only thing they are scared of is their wives. The wives are the boss, and I can tell you; his is an absolute terror. You, on the other hand, are not scary. You're delicious."

"You’re his mistress, and have been for years."

"Of course, but he won't mind sharing." She giggles, "Anyway, he's tied up so can't do much about it. Funny that I hadn't pegged him as someone who likes to watch." She strokes her hand down the side of Sherlock's face.

He finds himself thinking that Irene Adler had been better at this sort of thing than the young woman in front of him. "Sorry. Women aren't my area."

Her eyes widen. "OH! Gjoka, I didn't know you were into men! How amazing. Mustn't ever let the boys know, they're _so_ homophobic back in Tirana."

If anything, this comment makes her captive lover even more apoplectic. He's heaving himself against the leather manacles so that the entire four-poster shakes, and trying to yell around the ball-gag.

Sherlock smiles. "Best remove the gag. It wouldn't do for him to choke to death or have a heart attack. I need him to do something important for me, and this film is just the thing I need to convince him." He switches off the camera as she clambers onto the bed and starts to release her lover.

oOoOoOoOo

Less than a week later in a particular area of North London, peace comes to a council estate that has had a history of being a battle zone between the Bemerton Mandem and the Market Road gangs. No one can understand why the drug supplier has suddenly declared it a "no-go" zone, and threatened any gang member caught in there with serious consequences for them and their gang.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sherlock makes a habit of borrowing Greg’s Norton. See my story The Stockbroker’s Courier in the Got My Eye on You series. 
> 
> **The back story on why Sherlock is blackmailing the Albanian is explained in the Ex Files Chapter called Execution.


	14. Ugly

Now that he's living on his own again, Sherlock pays even less attention to his state of undress. Not that he'd done all that much when John was still around, to be honest. But after being shouted at for wandering around naked, Sherlock had learned to exit his bedroom wearing something- a dressing gown, a sheet, anything to preserve John's sense of propriety.

"I live here too Sherlock and would appreciate the common courtesy of you being clothed."

"You're a doctor. It's nothing you haven't seen before."

John had rolled his eyes at that. "Not doing this. There is a difference between what I do in a medical setting, where exposure of some areas is needed, to wanting to be presented with six feet of naked male wandering around my home."

For Sherlock, the opportunity to enjoy the view of John fresh out of the shower, sitting in his chair, his bare legs crossed as he read the morning newspaper had been one of the highlights of the day. That he had come to appreciate the aesthetic appeal of the man's compact body and musculature was one of the serious benefits of sharing a flat. If only the man had developed the habit of walking about naked; Sherlock would have been delighted. It had rather stung him that John did not feel the same about seeing Sherlock's body. He'd been told by others that he is pleasingly proportioned and attractive to both sexes. Mycroft had accused him of being vain, but then Sherlock had dismissed that as being more a case of envy and jealousy than true insight. But the more John had seized on every opportunity to declare he was not gay, the more Sherlock became more circumspect.

The first time he'd worn a sheet, John had thanked him. "It's not just for my benefit. What if Mrs Hudson were to be in the kitchen if you came down the hall starkers?"

Sherlock had fixed John with a glare. "It's nothing she hasn't seen before. She was married. And an exotic dancer before that. Males in a state of undress were not an unusual sight. The swinging sixties and all that? No prudishness back then. I would have thought the army would have cured you of any inhibitions about seeing a male body."

He'd not won the argument, choosing to concede defeat rather than make it a source of conflict. There were enough of those over things like body parts in the fridge, using John's possessions. And firing John’s gun when he was bored. A flatmate needs to choose his battles. Besides, Mrs Hudson's parsimonious attitude towards the heating in the flat made nudity somewhat uncomfortable for nine months out of every year.

But that was then. This is now. After his two years away, Sherlock's opportunity to see John these days is rare indeed, so he wants to think more consciously about what he will wear today. Mary is bringing John over tonight after work, to get the latest update on the wedding plans.

He walks from the bathroom into the bedroom, towelling his hair dry with the kind of focused concentration needed to ensure that moisture is wicked without crushing the curls. When he arrives at the wardrobe, he drops the towel and takes out the black dress shirt to go with the trousers he'd laid out earlier on the bed. To gather the pants, vest and socks he needs, Sherlock turns to the chest of drawers and consults the index of clothing, sorted by colour and texture of fabric. His eye is caught by purple, and he thinks perhaps he should change his shirt. John had once liked the purple shirt on him.

He looks over his shoulder at the wardrobe and sees his back reflected in the mirror on the door. The sight shocks him. It still does. The pain he's come to expect; scar tissue pulls and shrinks; the puckered skin around individual wounds is something he feels on a daily basis.

But he rarely sees it, because it's on his back and there is no reason to be reminded of how ugly it is. How ugly _he_ is now. All those people who made their jibes about him being a Freak would crow and point their fingers. He's deformed now, a monster. No one has scars like this on their backs anymore. He can only imagine their shock and horror at how hideous a crime he must have committed to deserve such a beating.

Sherlock hates the scars; they are a daily reminder of his failure. He was caught and tortured. He will never be unblemished again. He will never, ever have the opportunity of hearing John praise him for what he looks like naked. He’d be too ashamed. He will never willingly expose his ugliness to anyone now, least of all John.

As he slides on the purple shirt, Sherlock decides that writer John used to read was wrong. Tom Wolfe —John had read _The Right Stuff_ because he liked stories about test pilots and astronauts, men of action. The author had written "The surest cure for vanity is loneliness." For Sherlock now, his ugliness is the surest guarantee that he will always be alone now. _Alone protects me._


	15. Argument

Sherlock is due to meet John at Number 1, Savile Row at exactly 2pm. His text had been purposefully vague as to the reason, words carefully chosen to suggest a potential case, without actually promising one. He'd arranged with Mary that she'd push John out the door if necessary; no argument would be accepted. It's Saturday, so no excuses about John's work commitments should interfere with Sherlock's plans.

When he sees John striding up the pavement, glancing at the numbers over the shops lining both sides of the street, Sherlock takes time to enjoy the view. Time was that he could spend a whole day or night observing the wonder that is John Watson. Looking back now on their time in the flat before _all that_ happened, Sherlock regrets squandering those hours.

These days, time with John has to fit in between the doctor's hours at the surgery and his evenings with Mary. Their weekends seem filled with domestic chores that take up too much time. If Sherlock is jealous that Mary is now the one to get John all the time, both at the work they now share and the home they have made together, well, beggars can't be choosers. John has chosen Mary and Sherlock has to accept that fact, for the sake of his friend's happiness.

John arrives at the designated location at exactly two o'clock. Sherlock has always admired John's punctuality; time is more difficult for him to manoeuvre these days, when he has to negotiate life without the precision with which John had divided his time. Living with John had a routine; like clockwork, a left-over from his army days. These days Sherlock is rudderless, his internal clock so befuddled that he struggles to remember what day of the week it is, let alone what the time of day is. Today, to make sure he doesn't miss a single moment with John, Sherlock arrives ten minutes early and loitered with intent.

"So, what's the case?" John asks, looking around the Mayfair street as if there should be a criminal in plain view. "Mycroft had his umbrella nicked? This looks like his part of London." The view will show him only posh cars parked, a few pedestrians parading their designer shopping bags and smart clothes in the early spring sunshine. It's mid-March and London is enjoying a week of respite from the wet and windy tail-end of winter.

"The case of the naked bridegroom."

"What?!"

Sherlock points to the sign over the shop at Number 1 Savile Row. "We have an appointment."

John doesn't hide his disappointment. "More wedding stuff? I was looking forward to something a bit more exciting."

Sherlock puts on a brave smile; John's reaction makes him realise that his sole purpose in John's life these days seems to be as wedding planner rather than fellow crime solver. If he'd ever wanted confirmation that his attraction to John had been as a supplier of adrenaline and danger, the look on John's face is enough. Brightly, he replies, "Once this is over, we'll pick something out of the inbox and you can get a thrill. But first, in." Sherlock opens the shop door and speaks to the superbly well-dressed man inside. "We have an appointment with your cutter, Gerald Gifford."

"Of course, Mister Holmes. Let me show you the way to the Bespoke Room."

Behind him John snarks quietly, "The benefits of being a celebrity, Sherlock. Everyone knows your face."

Sherlock decides not to point out that the client care standards at Gieves &Hawkes would mean that everyone who booked an appointment for bespoke tailoring would be greeted by name. He has no wish to rub John's nose into the fact that he's never had a suit tailor-made and would consider it to be a waste of good money.

The carpet underfoot and the burnished wood of the shop fittings combine to create a sense of calm order, an atmosphere that strengthens as the shop assistance opens a double set of doors into the inner sanctum. No off-the-rail clothes in here. In fact, no clothes of any sort. Just a tan leather chesterfield sofa, a low glass coffee table and two doors leading to fitting rooms. On the table are large books, which Sherlock knows will have swatches of fabrics in them.

John is looking somewhat uneasy, looking around the room. "Why do I get the feeling that you and Mary are ganging up on me?" He hisses, "How much is all this going to cost?"

"John, this is Mycroft's wedding present. Your suit and mine. You're the one who said this is the most important day of your life, so it makes sense to look your best for it."

A moment later the doors open and a man in his forties comes in, smiling. "Mister Holmes and Doctor Watson. A pleasure to meet you. I'm Gerald Gifford. Please take a seat on the sofa."

If Sherlock notices the man is watching John walk to the sofa and sit, he is not surprised. A cutter needs to know the man he is measuring; he needs to see his gait, his stance, how he moves in his clothes.

When they are both seated, Gifford asks, "Can I offer you a coffee or some tea?"

John shakes his head. "No, thank you. I'd like to get this over as quick as possible please."

"I understand you are both here for morning suits, for the Watson wedding."

John draws breath, as if forcing himself to be patient. "Yeah. Although I'd be just as happy renting something from Moss Bros, if the truth be told."

Sherlock blinks and tries to stifle his first reaction, but Gifford beats him to it and in a far more polite way. "I understand. A military man like you would want to make things simple, efficient. I respect that."

John shoots Sherlock a look, as if to ask what he's told the man about him. "No, John. I didn't tell him. Mister Gifford here is a cutter. They can tell what a man does by the way he walks, how he holds himself. Mister Gifford's father taught me a lot about how to observe people by the clothes they wear and how they wear them."

John's brow creases. "Cutter? Is that a posh name for a tailor?"

Gifford smiles again. "The tailors work to sew the garments. A cutter is someone who creates the pattern, the unique fitting that makes a suit work for you. I like to think of us as being the artists, with the tailors simply fulfilling our instructions. You may be relieved to know that we do a lot of bespoke military wear here. When it comes to weddings, however, it's not the menfolk who make the decisions. We have to fit in with the bride's hopes and dreams. Mister Holmes has done me the courtesy of sending me a photo of your intended's dress, which I must say is beautiful. Obviously, I can't show it to you, so you will have to take my word that it sets the style for us to follow. Your matching outfits will consist of the classic black morning coat over charcoal grey pinstriped trousers. I've selected a few cream and ivory waistcoats and ties for you to choose from that will go well with your bride's colour palette. Of course, there will be choices to be made about fabrics and weights, but before all that, I need to take measurements for both of you. I will make this as painless as possible, and be as quick as I can. I can see you're a busy man."

Gifford goes to one of the doors, opening it to reveal a changing room with mirrors on three sides. "Doctor Watson, if you would like to go first?"

Sherlock uses the opportunity to examine the swatches of fabrics, using the soft ribbon bookmarks to mark the places with choices that he thinks will work for the both of them. John may be less fussy about what he wears, but Sherlock's sensory needs mean that some fabrics need to be avoided at all costs.

With no one looking, he enjoys the experience, rubbing his fingers over the ones that feel wonderful, taking them out of the binders to rub them against his face and bringing them to his nose to be smelled. The texture and aromas of fine fabrics is something of a sensory indulgence for him, yet another reason why he has always loved tailor-made suits. He pulls out his phone and takes photos; it will help to prompt his memory if John is indecisive.

When John emerges again with Gifford behind him, the expression on his face tells Sherlock that he has not enjoyed the experience of being measured, but at least he is not twitching with impatience.

Sherlock enters the dressing room and starts to remove his shoes and clothes. When he is down to his vest and pants, he stops. Gifford is efficient, measuring for the trousers first, noting all the details in a small notebook as he goes.

"Mister Holmes, as this is a mid-May wedding, you won't be wearing a vest, so could I ask you to remove it now? The waistcoat needs to fit well against the shirt."

Drawing breath, Sherlock realises that removing his vest will reveal the full horror of the scars on his back. After a moment's hesitation, he complies. Gifford will be too professional to comment and the fact that he will have had military clients means that he should be at ease with scars. As the full extent of his injuries becomes visible in the three mirrors, Sherlock wonders whether John had felt any shyness about revealing his shoulder injury.

Of course, Gifford says nothing, proceeding to measure across his shoulder blades and down his spine. "You have excellent posture, Mister Holmes; I will ensure that the cut of the morning coat will not disguise that fact," he murmurs.

From the room behind them comes the sound of Sherlock's phone. He'd left it and his Belstaff on the sofa. After a couple more rings, the sound is replaced by John talking. Because the door to the dressing room is shut, Sherlock cannot hear the conversation.

Gifford is measuring the distance between Sherlock's elbow and wrist when there is a single knock at the door and John comes marching straight in, still talking. "Yeah, I think he'll be interested in that; text the addr…" He stops mid-word as he sees Sherlock's back, reflected in the mirrors.

John's eyes flick between the sight of the scars and Sherlock's face before he continues, "Actually, Lestade, let me get back to you on that."

The atmosphere in the room seems to drop ten degrees, and Sherlock gives an involuntary shiver. It makes Gifford glance up at him from where he had been measuring the circumference of the left wrist, complete with the scar formed by the heavy iron manacles.

John has switched Sherlock's phone off and says quietly to Gifford, "Could you give us some privacy, please." There is no request about it; this is a captain's order. The cutter leaves without a word.

John closes the distance between them as Sherlock hastily grabs his vest from where he'd placed in his neatly folded clothes and struggles into it as fast as he can.

"When were you going to tell me about that?"

"About what?" Sherlock says, putting as much nonchalance as he can muster into the words.

"Sherlock…"

The vest isn't enough protection against John's scrutiny, so Sherlock picks up his dress shirt and starts to put it on, too. "What did Lestrade want?"

"Fuck what he wants. I want to know what happened to your back."

"Don't be an idiot."

"You were… _tortured_."

Sherlock shrugs the shirt into a better fit across his shoulders and starts buttoning. "Obviously."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock now makes momentary eye contact, just long enough to say, "Why? It would make no difference, you knowing or not knowing. So, why would I tell you?"

John looks away first and rubs his left hand across bis brow. "Christ, Sherlock. How can you say that? You should have told me. Who did this to you?"

Annoyed, Sherlock snaps, "What difference does _that_ make? Why should it matter to you that I never did find out the name of the Serbian who did the damage?"

John is flexing the fingers of his left hand, always a tell of his emotional turmoil. An awkward silence falls, which Sherlock uses to continue dressing.

"Is he still alive?"

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, wanting to be anywhere but here. Finally, he barks "Who the hell knows? I can't say I've given it any thought one way or the other. I apologise for the disgusting sight, but you did march in here uninvited. Now change the subject!"

Now that his back is safely hidden under two layers of cloth, Sherlock feels able to turn away from John, tucking his shirt and vest into his trousers and picking up his right shoe.

"Sherlock. We need to talk about this."

"Why? Pointless, utterly pointless, unless you think that the scars somehow invalidate my ability to be your best man. Or is this you telling me that you could not consider someone so maimed to be a candidate for the position of your best friend?"

Reflected in the mirrors, Sherlock watches as John's expression crumples; the anger that had been there moments ago is now subsumed by something else that he struggles to interpret.

"You’ve never told me what happened while you were away."

"You never asked. You said you didn't care _how_ things happened, just _why_."

"That was about you surviving that fall, not about what happened after."

"What happened after is that you got past whatever grief you felt about my death, and then moved on. You got on with your life. You found Mary, wooed her and are about to marry her. You were angry when I returned and nearly spoiled things."

"Sherlock."

For some reason, John's eyes are becoming red-rimmed and wet. It annoys Sherlock, who hisses, "This… this is what I want to avoid. I have no reason to want to relive what happened. That was then. You say you have forgiven me for all the hurt I caused you, but you have not forgotten. You are still scarred by the experience. Well, now you know, so was I. These are a hideous reminder of how ugly I now look. Every one of them is an accusation of my failure." He bends to slip his shoe on.

"Stop… Just stop."

If Sherlock ties his shoelace with more ferocity than needed, well, he's not a machine, as much as John might want to think he is. To be seen like this, to have his monstrous ugliness displayed to John in not one but three mirrors. It's all too much. "Yes. Stop. I totally agree. What did Lestrade want? Is it case that meets with your approval?"

"That's not what I meant. You and I… we are going to leave here and go back to Baker Street. I am going to fix us some tea and you are going to sit in your chair and tell me everything that happened. I've been the idiot you have accused me of being. So, get your other shoe on and let's go."

As Sherlock starts to tie the lace, he shakes his head. "It's boring. You shouldn't waste your time. The case will be vastly more interesting. I promised Mary I would keep you entertained this afternoon."

"Is that what you think I need? To be _entertained_?" John's voice breaks on the last word.

Sherlock turns back to face him, his own chest constricting from the strain of keeping what he's feeling off his face. "My time with you is rationed. I will admit to being selfish in that I don't want to waste it going over something that is no longer relevant."

"No, we're not doing the case." John lifts his chin in that determined look of his. "No argument from you. We're doing this."

In exasperation, Sherlock raises his hands and says loudly enough that Gifford outside must be able to hear, " _WHY?"_

"Because that's what friends do. And you are my friend, Sherlock. My best friend. And more than that. Ugly? You think those scars on your back are ugly? They aren't to me. They're what you sacrificed to save my life. The way I've been throwing my anger at you about being left behind… no, that's ugly and I am ashamed of it, of myself."

"What you're proposing is an afternoon of comparing our scars?" Sherlock can't keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"Yeah. About bloody time, too."


	16. Trinket

Luckily, Mrs Hudson is not at home. She and Mrs Turner have gone off to Brighton for the day. Otherwise, you don't think you would have been quite as brave as all this. Not with the chance that someone could come up the stairs unannounced and lay eyes on the two of you sitting opposite one another, bare-chested.

People would talk. A happily engaged man sitting half-naked in a chair across from the celebrity detective who saved London from a second Guy Fawkes bomb plot? The tabloids would go mad. It would be misconstrued as something more than what it is —which you know to be two men trying and failing to find words to explain how the scars they bear need to be considered in the context of their relationship. You clear your throat, worried about how this is going to play out. "I don't do this, this talking about feelings. And I'm probably going to make a hash of it. But it has to be done because I won't allow you to spout the kind of rubbish I heard at the tailor's."

"Cutter. Not tailor."

You roll your eyes. "Pedant."

"Pleb."

The exchange of insults seems to defuse some of the tension, and you and he both end up giggling. You take a coin out of your pocket. "Seriously? We're going to do this. Heads you start with your questions about my scars; tails I do the same about yours."

Naturally, Sherlock wins.

It is the first time that you have willingly bared your shoulder wound for Sherlock to scrutinise. In your years of sharing a flat, you had never done so.

"Why now? Why not before when you lived here?" Sherlock asks.

"I didn't see the point. You deduced my injury the moment you first laid eyes on me. Knowing you, you've probably calculated the calibre and exact angle of penetration by the bullet, the distance from which it was fired, and how the bone fragments of the scapula turned into shrapnel to make the exit wounds hideously mangled."

Sherlock doesn't reply, which confirms your assessment of his deductions as accurate. Instead, he comments, "You purposefully kept it hidden from my view as if you were ashamed of it." 

"I didn't give a damn what you thought about it; it was what I thought about it and still do that matters."

"Which is?"

"I got caught with my back turned to the enemy. Stupid beyond belief. I didn't even manage to save the private I was trying to treat. I damned nearly bled out lying on top of an already dead corpse. Every time I look at this scar, I remember how my stupidity cost me my job and sent me home a cripple." If your words are harsh, they reflect the anger you still feel. You flex your left hand, making a fist and then releasing it. This gesture had started as a form of PT, but had become a nervous tic, a continuous test of when the tremor might return again.

"You were busy trying to save the second life; the first one you'd already dragged to safety survived."

Your eyes widen. "How did you deduce that?"

"I didn't. I read your discharge file."

You roll your eyes again eyes and then laugh without humour. "Of course, you did. Why should I think anything is private when it comes to you?" 

"I also read the despatch from your commanding officer."

You give a shrug. "That at least is a public document."

"For good reason. It was the basis of awarding you the medal. The Military Cross you keep locked in the metal box stuck under your bed."

"I suppose you picked the lock on that, too?"

Sherlock nods. "I did it with a paperclip. Really John, if you want to keep things private then you should have said so. But doing so would have drawn attention to it, which you didn't want to do. Why?"

Is it the cold of the flat or the fact that you aren't used to it anymore? Mary keeps the thermostat of your flat at nearly 20 degrees, meaning you're happy to wander about in a t-shirt and boxers. You suppress the shiver and answer, "One hundred and eighty-four other serving men and women have been given medals for doing their jobs in Afghanistan. I was no different from them or any of the thousands who were deployed there. Some of them didn't come home. It's just a piece of metal, Sherlock, a trinket. It doesn't mean anything."

"Maybe not to you, but it does to me, not to mention the army or the rest of society."

"Trinket aside, I was still forced to accept medical discharge and sent home. A piece of metal doesn't compensate for what I lost. It can't bring back the life of Private Second-Class Robert Harris of the Fifth Northumbrian Fusiliers. I wish it could, but that MC is no compensation for his death."

"Shall I tell you what it means to me?"

"The scar or the medal?"

"Both. Without your bravery under fire, you wouldn't have been shot. You see it as the end of your career; I see it as a beginning. It's the reason why you and I met. Your scar is what put you in London at a time when I needed a flatmate."

You are tempted to taunt him with a comment about sentiment, but decide you've done enough damage. "About that… I did eventually realise that you didn't need the rent money. You have more than enough to pay for this place on your own. Always have, always will. So why did you tell Mike you needed a flatmate?"

"I did need a flatmate. Not for the money. It was a condition of my being released from re-hab. I'd always been on my own, but Mycroft wouldn't let me have access to my trust fund unless I took a flatmate."

Your eyes widen. "You were in _rehab?_ Jeeze, Sherlock; you told me that playing the violin was the worst thing that I should know about you. So, Greg wasn't yanking your chain with that fake drugs bust on the first night?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Not then. It was physical rehab, not drugs. I was injured in a case that went wrong*. I'd been clean for nearly three years by then. You were an ideal candidate, as I think you proved to both your and my satisfaction."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, peering more closely at the scar tissue starring out across your clavicle. "The trinket you dismiss, the wound that made that scar, they're what brought us together. I will always be grateful for that. I know it's more than a bit not good to be thankful for something that brought you such pain, but I don't care. You already think I'm a selfish bastard already so it doesn't matter."

"I don't think that."

"You called me 'an annoying dick all the time'."

He pitches the tone so that it sounds just like you did, that night when the whole damned thing went to hell in a hand-basket. _Can't you see what he is doing?_ he had shouted at you that night. Of course not; you hadn't seen it. Not properly. He's right; you see but do not observe. That's another scar you bear, and quite honestly it hurts you more than the shoulder wound ever did.

"I said a lot of things I regret now. I regretted them for the two years when I thought you'd killed yourself because I was such a rotten friend, that I didn't give you a reason to stay alive. I regret them now that you're back. I've had too much to regret about you and I think I need to stop doing that."

Sherlock takes this the wrong way, almost flinching and then his expression hardens. "Well, don't bother regretting anything about me ever again, if that's what you want."

You shake your head and give a sad smile. "Don't be a dick now by misunderstanding me. I meant what I said, Sherlock. You and Mary are the two people I love most in this world. I didn't regret saying that when I asked you to stand by my side at the wedding, and I don't regret repeating it now. I should have said it before you went off and got all those scars. Who knows what would have happened if we'd done that?"

"Speculation without data is pointless. It didn't happen."

"Yeah, and that's another scar on my soul. We've done a lot to hurt each other, and you know what's really weird? I don't think I ever intended to do anything like that. It's just my stupidity at not making myself clear. I'm going to try to be different now, trying to say what I mean more clearly. I don't want to regret anything about you and me in the future. Is that okay with you?"

A little tentatively, he nods. Quietly, he then adds, "Yes, I would like that."

"So, anything else before it's my turn to remind you that the whole point of this conversation is that you're going to tell me about your scars? I won't be deflected."

His eyes focus on the star-burst of white, pink and puckered skin on your shoulder. "Would you mind terribly if I took a closer look first?" His hand is reaching for the magnifying glass that is on the little side table beside his chair.

Stifling your laugh, but letting him see it in your eyes, you say. "Okay, but then it's your turn, and I am going to look at yours just as closely."

He nods and gets up to come to kneel at your side, focussing his whole attention on a three-square inch piece of you. Oddly, it doesn't make you the slightest bit embarrassed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The case that landed Sherlock in rehab after a very nasty injury is told in the story Consequences in the Got My Eye on You Series.


	17. Delusion

Under your magnifying glass, the scar becomes what you can only describe as a thing of beauty. When the sniper's bullet managed to find its way through John's body armour on his back, it shattered his left scapula and then the fragments of bone joined in with the bullet to tear and shred their way through muscle, nerves and blood vessels, only to get stopped by the body armour on the front of his shoulder. The damage must have been horrendous if the remnants of the exit wounds now visible on the surface of John's skin are anything to go by. But the scar is the evidence that John had healed, that he miraculously retained use of his arm and dominant hand, that he recovered from the trauma. That alone makes you appreciate the scar as a beautiful symbol of John's survival.

"The subclavian vein and artery?" you murmur. Either would be a reason why John had said he nearly bled out on the battlefield.

In your peripheral vision, you see John nod and then reply "Vein. I was lucky."

Braver now that he's willing to talk about it, you ask, "What about nerve damage?"

"Yes." This is a tighter answer, a bit fraught with too many memories? Perhaps not, as John then adds "But minor. I had a very good surgeon."

"May I touch it?"

A quick nod, but he won't make eye contact. You explore the granulations, adhesions, ridges and puckers. A three-dimensional sensation, and once again you are surprised at how warm his skin feels. John normally runs warm, an average temperature that is almost a full Celsius degree warmer than you. It's always a surprise, and a welcome one when they were on a case and circumstances meant close contact. "It doesn't hurt anymore?"

"The shoulder aches when it rains; but otherwise, no. It's healed well."

"The tremor?"

You can actually feel his muscles tighten under your fingertips at that question, and it makes you worry that you've gone too far.

"Tremors are caused in the brain. Not from a bullet wound."

Ah, this is linked to the psychosomatic limp then; both would be enough to eliminate his hopes of continuing as a surgeon, even without the nerve damage. You sense his patience with your scrutiny is ending. For a man who had hidden any sign of this wound from you for the two years you lived together, John has given you a gift today.

It's a shame that it is going to have to be reciprocated now. You rock back on your heels and gracefully regain your feet. Handing him the magnifying glass, you return to your chair and sit down. With more bravado in your voice than you actually feel, you say brightly, "Your turn."

John seems to be the one feeling the cold now, you can see goosebumps forming on his bare arms. You on the other hand are abnormally hot, flushed with embarrassment at having to answer questions that you would really rather not be asked of you.

"You were tortured. By whom, for how long, when and where?"

Facts. Facts you can handle. "In reverse order: Serbia, last October; I was held prisoner for a month. The person who made the scars is irrelevant; the chain of command from him to the one who actually ordered it is more relevant. Darko Seric, the head of Europe's largest cocaine network. A client of Baron Maupertuis, who runs a money-laundering service for multiple drug cartels, out of a link between the Netherlands and Sumatra."

"October."

The word is pronounced with some underlying emotion that you cannot fathom. You nod, wondering why amidst all the facts that you have just dumped in his lap, John chooses to focus on the month it happened.

"So, not long before you returned to London."

Another nod. This focus on facts is allowing you to breathe; perhaps this won't be as gruesome as you feared.

"During the same month, I tackled you to the floor of the Landmark Hotel, put my whole weight on your injuries while trying to throttle you."

You shrug, vaguely aware that for some reason this recitation of events at your reunion matters to him.

John nods, and then closes his eyes to take a deep breath, but you are not sure why he needs the extra oxygen. A silence falls and you are grateful for it, hoping that you've satisfied his curiosity and you can get dressed again.

His dark blue eyes snap open again. "Right. You're going to accept my apology for the pain that I must have caused you, by making you fall on your back. And then let's add into that apology the split lip and the bloody nose inflicted on a man who gave absolutely no resistance, put up no defence. But then why would you? For a whole month someone had been hurting you without you being able to do a damned thing about it. My only defence is that I didn't know." John exhales a long breath and then says, "Back to the events in Serbia. I have questions that need answers."

 _Damn._ While it is true that you seldom swear out loud, that is not to say that you don't internally. Hearing voices in your head is how you control what leaves your mouth, a manual filtering process. What you let out is "If you must."

John asks, "Why?"

You struggle with the lack of clarity. Is he asking you why he must continue with the questions? That makes no sense. Or is he asking why you were tortured? Or why you were after the drug kingpin in the first place? Or even why had you been so negligent as to be captured? Your confusion must be telegraphed by your expression because John suddenly smiles, his tongue escapes and swipes across his lips, something you've never been able to interpret but which seems to be related to something you have unwittingly revealed that John finds amusing.

Your brain spins off on a tangent. Why is it with John you totally fail to keep your game face? It had been easier when you were away. Every expression was carefully curated then. When you'd first returned it had been hard to switch from being Lars back into whatever Sherlock Holmes used to do.

In that moment, you realise something profound, something you'd somehow failed to realise during the five months since you'd returned. That… _being Sherlock Holmes_ …was something that John had helped you do. Living with him here at Baker Street had carved you day-by-day into something more, something more meaningful than you'd been without him. Perhaps _forged_ would be a better term. Melted you down into the core elements of who you were and then tempered it all over fire into something steel-like. It had been enough to take you out of London, a sword to be wielded against the enemy who had threatened John and the life you two had together. To be honest, you'd never known you'd had it in you to do something like that before you met John.

Coming back to the empty flat, struggling to find a new way of dealing with a John who had changed, moved away from you both physically and mentally, you've not had the daily friction that had shaped the Sherlock Holmes of before. Perhaps the idea is a delusion. You will never be the same as you were. Who are you now? It's all rather bewildering.

The fond expression on John's face seems to falter, and then he smiles a bit tentatively. "You do know that you're doing that blinking thing again?"

No, you hadn't realised the question had taken your Mind Palace offline from reality. To buy time, you seek clarification. "Why, _what_? Be more specific. Why was I so stupid as to get caught? Or why was I tortured?" You start to blather. "I can't really speak for the motivations of the person who put these scars on my back. As I seem to recall, he had a problem with his unfaithful wife, and perhaps that allowed him to transfer his anger to me, a rather convenient target. Or maybe he was truly a sadist, hired by Seric for his obvious talent at torture." You shrug. "It's an underrated skill; it's hard to inflict enough pain to extract information without actually killing people."

John barks a laugh, but you hear no humour in it. "Not what I meant, Sherlock. Try again."

Now you are confused. "I was being tortured because Saric believed me to be a remnant of Moriarty's network, a man by the name of Lars Sigurson, who had dared to challenge his control of the drug supply chain from Afghanistan to Europe. He thought I was working with the Albanians to wrest control of his Serbian operation."

"You… _allowed_ this interpretation of your identity?"

"Yes, of course. I could hardly tell him I was Sherlock Holmes, could I? It wouldn't have had the desired effect. I wanted to pass on information. If he thought that I gave it when being tortured, he'd believe it to be true."

Something dark seems to pass over John's eyes. "You _arranged_ to be captured?"

"Not exactly," you admit. "Actually, it was an abject failure on my part. I'd wanted to do to Seric what I'd been doing for the previous two years, providing one side with the ammunition to be used against the other. I'd played Moriarty's clients against each other for almost two years, getting them to expose the Fallen Angels he'd assembled as his consulting network while at the same time inciting them to eliminate as many of their enemies in the process. It was what I called the win-win strategy. No government authorities needed to besmirch their ethics; let the criminals do all the dirty work. It's a classic subversion technique."

"What went wrong?"

"Seric decided I was the enemy rather than the provider of useful information. He assumed that Lars Sigurson was trying to take over his network, or at least allow the Albanians to do so. Therefore, I was sent to the dungeons. Literally, as his HQ was in an old medieval fortress near Uzice."

John's eyes move away from your face to alight on first your right wrist and then the left, specifically the red scars there. "You were handcuffed. But the scars are at an angle, so your hands weren't together. And the scars are too wide for a normal handcuff."

"Manacles. Iron, attached by chains to the walls. Opposite walls. I was in the middle. If I could stand, they didn't cut into me. Sometimes I think the object of the exercise was to ensure I couldn't stand, to make my shoulders carry the weight."

John seems to be thinking. "I didn’t see any scars on your legs."

You shake your head. "He liked backs. He was tall. Better angle; didn't have to bend down. Could get a full extension of whatever weapon of choice he was using." If your sentences are becoming rather fragmented and staccato, well, so what.

"Such as?"

You draw a ragged breath. "Does it matter?"

John nods. "Yeah, it does. Different things inflict different damage."

You shake your head. "Nothing irreparable. The only thing left is the scars."

"I'll be the judge of that." He gets up, carrying the magnifying glass. "Lean forward."

You comply, suddenly uncomfortable that you can no longer see his face, judge his reaction. It's an annoying fact now that you don't like anyone standing behind you these days. You know this is John; he's different. He won't hurt you, but still, the ghost of that interrogator hangs over you like a pall.

Warm fingers trace the worst scars, then his attention seems to focus elsewhere. "What's this? It's different."

He's touched the one on your side. "Knife wound. Nine months earlier. In Mumbai. It got infected."

You hear the sigh, feel the exhaled breath on your lower back as John beds to take a closer look. Eventually, he moves around the back of your chair to the other side and bends in again, presumably using the magnifying glass. Gentle fingers touch one of the three sets of half-inch-wide and one-inch-long rectangular scars. "What caused these?" The tone of voice is almost as gentle as the touch.

"A farrier's hoof-nipper, I think. Sharp pincers, if you aren't familiar with horseshoeing." Again, this is greeted with a sharp intake of breath. John looks some more at different scars, probes the way a medical professional would judging things that you would prefer not to have displayed, let alone touched and judged.

Finally, he stands up and puts the magnifying glass back on the side table before returning to his chair. For some reason, you can't look at him. Not yet. Having him see this ugliness is proving to be painful in ways you can't explain.

"Sherlock."

Cautiously, you lift your line of sight from where it is seemingly glued to the floorboards between your two chairs and sneak a look.

You're shocked and dismayed. "Why are you crying? Is it really that awful?"

He lifts his chin. Licks his lips. Starts to speak and then stops to take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "That you were hurt like this? Yes, that's awful. That you weren't given time to heal, but immediately went to work on the bomb plot, that's awful, too. Knowing you, I'm going to guess that after you got back here to the flat, you didn't let anyone tend to your back. It's one of the reasons why the scarring is as bad as it is. A bit like the knife wound on your side. You never let yourself heal properly."

You shrug. "So what? The underlying damage healed fast enough; the scars may be disgusting to look at, and I would rather you had never seen them, but it doesn't matter to me what they look like. I'm sorry if the sight disgusted you."

"Stop that, just… stop it. Not disgusted with you, but with myself. I am an idiot for not realising the pain you were in, for not insisting on knowing what had happened to you. I was blinded by my own anger, delusional, thinking that you'd spent the time away swanning about on crime scenes everywhere in the world, having the time of your life while I was grieving back here. I was wrong…so wrong. I hate the fact that I didn't do anything to help you deal with the aftereffects. I am…" He stops, struggling to keep his emotions under control. "I am profoundly sorry, Sherlock. The same mistakes I made before you… left. I've been making them ever since you returned. I keep making them. I am an idiot, just like you always said. I don't know how you can even stand to be around me."

"I always want to be around you. The idea of getting back to London, of seeing you alive and well, that was what kept me going."

A slightly awkward silence arises, but you are not going to offer anything more. John knows how you feel about him, why you'd did what you did and why you'd ensured he stayed behind. You've told him often enough and apologised for thinking that it wouldn't have bothered him much once the initial shock wore off.

John breaks the silence. "How did you escape from the dungeon?"

You give him a rather sheepish look. "I was working on it. Might well have managed it by myself in another week, but then Mycroft arrived and got me out. He said I more important work to do in London. I was rather pleased to be out of that hellhole and back here."

"So am I, Sherlock, even though I was such an arsehole about it at the time. I'm sorry."

You wait, hoping this is the end of it. Fortunately, the front door downstairs opens and you hear footsteps coming up the stairs. So does John and you both sit there for a moment, knowing that neither of you has the time to get dressed again, so whoever it is will get an eyeful.

Luckily, you recognised the tread, so can relax and greet Lestrade as he walks into the living room. He's already aware of your scars, having seen the wounds months ago.*

"What's the case?" you ask.

The DI looks first at John and then at you, but wisely decides to say nothing about the collective state of half-nudity. "A real corker. You know the athletics championships are being held at the Olympic Park? Well, a French decathlete has just been found, totally mad, raving his head off, surrounded by one thousand eight hundred and twelve matchboxes. Sounds like something you'd like."

You are already out of the chair and pulling your undershirt over your head. As your head emerges from the cotton, you sneak a look at John who is dressing even faster than you are. He catches your eye and smiles back at you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The story of Sherlock's escape is covered in the Ex File Chapter 37 Extradition. Greg's discovery of Sherlock's injuries on his return are covered in The Good Man, in the Got My Eye On You series.


	18. Heels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm breaking out of the strict order that ohlooktheresabee's February Prompt list, which put another two prompt words between the last chapter and this one, but hey I can't be responsible for where my brain went when I saw this word. So, Heels it is.

John puts the car into gear and takes a left turn out of the surgery carpark. Mary's in the passenger seat, head bent over her phone, fingers flying in a text exchange that is keeping her busy. They've both had a tiring day at work, full of kids with colds, winter vomiting sickness and the other childhood ailments that always seem to cluster around the first few days of returning to school after the February half-term.

On a good day, this commute home should be a twenty-minute drive across south London. Today is not a good day; traffic seems to be snarling up more than usual. Even the bits where he can normally get into third gear are misbehaving; the start/stop constant use of the clutch is getting on his nerves and making his leg ache.

To distract himself, he asks Mary, "Who's bending your ear?"

She snorts. "Texting. Not talking."

He re-phrases, "Who's exercising your fingers?"

"Sherlock."

That makes him want to look over to see, but he knows he won't able to read the texts from this distance, not if he wants to avoid rear-ending the car in front. "What's he up to?"

"Interesting case. You're going to go help him sort it when we get home."

An idiot cycle courier comes up alongside John's door, narrowly missing the wing mirror and then swerves through the gap between their car and the next one. John slams on the brakes and shouts "Wanker!"

"He can't hear you. Or was that the cyclist you were thinking of?"

Grumpily, John replies, "Both. I'm knackered, would love a quiet night in, a beer in front of some crap telly and then an early night."

"Sure you do. But you'll have more fun if you spend an hour or two with him. You're bored, John,"

John knows she's right. It's just hard these days to fit it all in.

oOoOoOo

Forty minutes later John arrives at Number 27 New Bond Street. If he is surprised to discover it is a shoe shop, at least he can see that it's selling women's shoes, so it's not another scam by Sherlock to get him into buying a posh pair of shoes for the wedding. He'd fallen for that two weeks ago and ended up getting fitted for a morning coat. At least that Saturday afternoon had ended in a fun case involving matchboxes and a French athlete.

The shop door has a sign on it that says closed, but the shop assistant unlocks to let him in, saying "He's in the back. They're waiting for you in the private shopper's room."

When John walks into the room, he sees Sherlock sitting in one of two chairs and what must be at least twenty pairs of high heeled shoes displayed on a bench across from him. John's eye also takes in two strange rectangular boxes about a meter and a half in length on the floor with some sort of grey material in them. Sand? Mud? Hard to tell. There is a sales assistant, a tall, thirty-ish woman exquisitely dressed in what screams expensive designer wear, with an outrageously high pair of heels in snakeskin leather. He takes a moment to appreciate the view of what the shoe does to her slim ankle, arched foot and shapely calves. He might be getting married in a matter of months, but it doesn't mean he can't enjoy the view.

"Ah, John. At last. Take a seat and take off your shoes and socks."

"Hello, Sherlock." John sits but makes no effort to comply with the rest of the order. "What's going on here?"

"You're helping me solve a crime."

Looking at the serried ranks of shoes on the bench and thinking through the implications of being asked to take off his own shoes, John gives Sherlock a suspicious look. "What's the crime and why do I need to be barefoot to help?"

"Not barefoot. The shoeprint at the murder scene was a distinctive clue, but I am having some difficulty convincing Lestrade and the hopeless Forensic team that the suspect is not a woman."

"And how am I supposed to help you prove that?"

He leans over to show John a photo on his phone. "This is the set of prints found outside the side window of the victim's house in St John's Wood. London clay is excellent for capturing the details."

As John looks, he sees the deep marks of a stiletto heel driven deep into the mud and the outline of the shoe leather. There is a strange shape barely visible and a letter. As if reading his mind, Sherlock says, "That's _vero cuoio,_ the symbol of a leather sole, made in Italy and a tiny bit of the brand which I have identified as Jimmy Choos. That's why we're here. You're going to try on these shoes, walk in my clay box and I will take a photograph. I will be able to prove to Lestrade that your stride and the marks you make are different because you are not a woman."

"Glad you noticed that," John mutters. "What makes you think I could walk in something like those?"

The saleswoman smiles. "I can assure you, Doctor Watson, they are remarkably comfortable and quite easy to walk in, no matter how precarious they look. A couple of turns around the room and you'll be fine."

Sherlock adds in, "Miss Standish here is the same shoe size as you, and both of you are the same size as the print: size 9 British size, which is 43 in European size."

"How do you know my shoe size?"

"The same way I know you are five foot six and a half inches tall, weigh seventy kilos and have a stride longer than the average male for that height because you learned to march in step with men, ninety per cent of whom are taller than you are, me included."

Even while he marvels at how Sherlock can manage such a long sentence on one breath of air, John's eyes are narrowing a bit; he really doesn't like to be reminded of his height. "Why didn't you ask Mary to do this?"

Sherlock sighs. "What part of me saying that a _male_ that made this footprint did you fail to understand? Anyway, Mary is the same weight as you are but she's only five foot four and wears a size seven shoe."

John looks at Miss Standish. "She's a lot taller than me."

Now he gets the rolled eyes. "John, she weighs the same as you do, so the impression should show similar depth. The fact that she's taller means that her stride should match yours. Mary's stride is only 24 inches because she's short. The average male stride is thirty inches."

Miss Standish picks up the first pair of shoes. "These are our Love range, a court shoe with luminous, glow in the dark glitter and a dramatically pointed toe. The heel is only three and a half inches high and it's cut higher on the foot, allowing for more coverage, so a good one to start with, Doctor Watson. Try them on, walk around to get used to them. Once you've done your prints in the box, I will put the pair on and do the same. Mister Holmes here takes a photo of what imprints we leave, and then we go onto the next pair. He levels the mud in the boxes and we do it all again with the next pair."

Sherlock chips in, "All of these are the same 85mm stiletto heel as the print, but the cut of the shoe will affect the way you walk in it and the print you leave. These are the most popular models that fit the print, but narrowing it down to a particular style will help locate the killer."

John's pursed his lips, clearly not keen on the exercise. Sherlock sighs. "A woman died last night from multiple stab wounds with signs of a fight, but no forensic evidence inside the house. Her husband has alibied out, in New York. He's pointing a finger at his wife's best friend, with whom I suspect him of having an affair. Lestrade's useless forensic team is telling him that he needs to arrest the friend. I disagree. I think this is a hit, organised and paid for by the husband. Even if they bring the girlfriend in for questioning, they will find she doesn't match the print and will have a good alibi."

"Why would he say it's the victim's best friend if he is having an affair with her?"

"To get them to eliminate her as a suspect. She'll have an alibi, and be dropped from the investigation. The police will be off on a wild-goose chase after an unknown woman wearing Jimmy Choo shoes, which means they will never find the culprit. The husband and girlfriend are in it together, John."

John eyes the glittering court shoe being held out by the shop assistant. Sighing, he starts to untie his shoes.

She produces a set of nylon knee high stockings. "Roll up your trouser legs to your knees and put these on."

"Must I?" The idea of wearing women's stockings ranks up there with the heels.

"Yes, John," Sherlock confirms. "The way a foot moves inside a woman's shoe is influenced by wearing a stocking. Socks won't do, and bare feet tend to stick to the leather lining inside limiting the roll of the ball of the foot, which is where I hypothesise the real difference between a man and woman's print will become clear."

The shoe feels most peculiar. Tight in places it shouldn't be and that's before he even attempts to stand up. John is hugely aware that the stiletto heel is like a toothpick; how will it be able to carry his weight without snapping off? _One, two, three…_ he levers himself to a standing position and almost immediately wobbles precariously, even though he's not standing up straight.

Miss Standish offers an arm for stability. "Mister Holmes," she murmurs. Sherlock appears at John's other side, offering his arm, too. John leans on both and takes a tentative step forward, knees bent, a bit hunched over. "OW, this _hurts_. How the fuck is this even possible? I'm going to fall over any second and knacker an ankle."

Sherlock says, "It takes some getting used to, but you will. Stop trying to walk like a man, and reposition your weight further back on your heels."

John gives him a curious look. "You've…done _this_ before?"

"Of course; dressing as a woman is a brilliant disguise. I've learned all of the body language needed to be convincing, which includes wearing heels."

John looks down at Sherlock's size eleven feet. "Do they even make women's shoes to fit you?"

Miss Standish laughs. "Of course, we do. Jimmy Choo will make to order, any size. I understand it is a favourite brand amongst the drag queen celebrities."

The pair of them lead John into taking a few more steps, which are more stagger than stride.

"Swing your hips, John; it helps to re-distribute your weight over the shoe better."

By the third circuit of the room, John is beginning to get the hang of it. He dispenses with the offered arms and starts to strut his stuff on his own. His feet hurt, his calves are feeling the strain and he's sweating from the effort it takes, but the mirror behind the boxes is showing a foot, ankle and leg that he wouldn't sniff at if he'd seen it on a woman.

Sherlock chimes in, as if reading John's mind. "You do have good looking legs, John. Surprisingly unhairy, which accentuates their attractiveness."

John takes a moment to digest this. "You….looked at my legs when we were sharing the flat?"

He gives John one of those startled looks of his, "How could I _not_ notice every time you walked from the bathroom to your chair in the morning?"

John looks back in the mirror at the reflection. "Why does wearing heels look so sexy?"

Miss Standish laughs. "Because it is! The shoe is perfectly designed to show the muscles and trim leg strength that evolution tells men is attractive in a woman. It emphasises the hip movement that correlates to child-bearing survivability. You men are basically hard-wired to react."

Sherlock gets up from the chairs and arrives at John's side. He puts one hand in the small of John's back and uses his other to push John's shoulders back. "Attention, soldier," he directs, and John unconsciously smartens his posture. "That's better. Chest out; remember that women have the weight of their breasts to deal with." The hand at his back drops to John's rear to give it a pat. "Tuck it in; it will help when you walk."

Sherlock directs him to take as normal a stride as John can manage, but he finds it hard. Eventually, when he's feeling a bit more confident, he does the sandbox thing, leaving two prints about twenty inches apart.

Miss Standish puts the same shoes on and does her own pair of prints in the box. Sherlock measures the depth of the heel marks into the soil and takes a photo. "Next pair, please."

By the tenth pair, John is both in pain and intrigued. There is an art to this, not that he's ever going to put it to use. He's hated the strappy sandals, flat out refused the open-backed mules, survived various heights of stiletto heel between three and a half and six inches tall before rather taking to the current pair: open-toed, black cut-out suede shoes that covered the top of his foot and up the ankle. With their greater support, he can walk more confidently and the sides seemed to have more stretch in them so they don't pinch so horribly. At a hundred millimetres in height, they are at the top of what he feels is bearable, although he has to admit that he welcomes adding another four inches. He thinks his whole life might have been different if he'd actually seen the world from five foot eleven inches' height.

"They suit you, Doctor Watson, " comments Miss Standish. "You have exquisite taste. The Tactic Bootie model is the sixth most expensive style we make, retailing for one thousand two hundred pounds."

John is still staring at her in shock when Sherlock agrees. "Your best pair yet; stride length almost normal and you've stopped bowing your knees out like a drunken sailor. Very attractive. You have good looking feet and even better looking legs." He uses his camera to take a photo.

"Oi! None of that."

Sherlock is grinning. "I've been told that the best man's speech is supposed to include information embarrassing to the groom. Perhaps I could do a show and tell, bring along one of these and show it to the wedding guests?"

"You do that and Lestrade will have a murder to investigate at the wedding when the groom tops the best man in cold blood. Or maybe I'll get Mary to be the one to do the deed." Sobering a bit as he takes the shoes off, John says, "Is this really going to help you catch the murderer?"

"Yes, for sure. The data already confirms my suspicions. You, a typical male, end up pushing the heel much deeper into the soil. Women have more experience in balancing on the balls of their feet; their step shifts the weight much sooner to the main sole, rather than the heel. It's why men tend to stomp and women glide in heels."

"You think Lestrade will accept it?"

"Yes, especially if I point him in the direction of one of three contract killers I know to be in London, all of whom are under five foot six and a hundred and sixty pounds. It will make for a slightly different kind of line up, asking them to put on a pair of the pink pompom courts and walk into these boxes, but the results should get them a warrant to search for the shoes in the likely suspect's possession."

"Wouldn't the murderer just ditch them? Burn them or something?"

Miss Standish answers before Sherlock can. " _Destroy_ a pair of Jimmy Choos? No, nobody does that. The resale value of these is amazing. He'd give them to a girl, or sell them on eBay."

John's sitting down and slipping the final pair of shoes off when he says "The idea of wearing mouse-traps on your feet for an entire day? That's my definition of murder."

On their way out the door, Sherlock is smiling. "Thank you, John. Your help is invaluable. I will keep you informed on the arrest." He flags a cab down and opens the back door. "Take a load off your feet; the cab's on my account. I've made Mary promise me that you will get a foot-rub tonight."

"What about you?"

"I will walk home."

"Want to do it in heels?"

"Who's to say I haven't already done it before? You know I don't like repeating myself." Sherlock's halfway down the street when the rest floats over his shoulder. "Good night, John."

As he scrunches sideways at the back of the cab so he can raise his sore feet onto the seat, John is smiling. _I'm never bored._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know when Sherlock used his female disguise in a previous story of mine, check out The Periodic Tale Holmium. That's not to say he won't be tempted to do so again in the future; after all cross-dressing runs in the family if Mycroft's snitching on Uncle Rudy is any indication. Nor should we dismiss his star turn as Lady Bracknell.


	19. Greece

John and Mary are sitting on the sofa. Behind them is the wall of doom as you call it in your own mind, but never out loud to them; for them it's just the _Wedding Wall_. It charts the inevitable march of time towards the fifteenth of May and their appointment with a minister that will mark the beginning of their new life together.

It is also the day that you will have to re-set your own internal calendar. This is now; that will be then. Then is when you have to put John into Mary's hands for safe-keeping. You will pass the baton, so to speak, and hope that the ever-so-public distance between you and the Watsons will be seen by whoever put John in the bonfire as evidence that he can no longer be kidnapped, threatened or used as a tool against you. Mycroft's present to the newly-weds will never be revealed to them but will consist of enhanced surveillance and protection at least until the formal break with you can be made publicly. You've arranged that too, with Mycroft's reluctant agreement— a drugs bust to take place a month after the wedding.

Between now and then, the stakes have been rising. You've been carefully screening the cases that you bring John in on, making sure that the potential for anything unexpected or dangerous is lower. Not just because Mary wants her fiancé to make it to the altar in one piece, but also because you are becoming increasingly embroiled in what you know to be the "mother-of-all-cases" involving Mycroft, dead Georgians and odd events in your life over the past twenty years.* All of which adds up to a case that could be the reason why John is still not safe, despite all the work you did against the remnants of the Moriarty empire.

Mary is sitting forward, a happy expectant look in her eyes. "What's it going to be today, Sherlock?"

Behind her line of sight, John can't resist a slight side-eye at her enthusiasm. His willingness to participate in all the wedding paraphernalia seems to be wearing a bit thin these days.

You turn your leather chair to face them, sit down and take up the clipboard. "Time to talk about the sex holiday."

"What?"

John sits up; "He means the honeymoon. Nope, not going there. This isn't your job, Sherlock. It's mine and I don't need your help."

Mary swivels so she can look at John in the eye. "That's sweet of you, darling, but shouldn't we at least listen to what he has to say? I mean, he's been able to do amazing things so far on our shoestring budget."

You nod, deciding that it is worth annoying John a bit if it means that some ground rules get set. "What Mary is saying is that she isn't content that all you are willing to consider is a pair of return tickets to Brighton and a three-star hotel room on the seafront."

"There's nothing wrong with Brighton," John says through clenched teeth. "Or anywhere else in Britain for that matter."

Mary puts on a little girl pout. "And there I was looking for some sunshine, turquoise sea and golden sand."

"There are plenty of beaches in England, even more, if you include Wales."

You clear your throat to get their attention. "The average temperature in England in mid-May for the past three years has been 16 degrees at mid-day, and it has rained on ten days of that month. In Wales and Cornwall, it's worse, twelve days get rain. That's in a good year."

Mary's pout is growing more obviously directed at John as you pronounce this forecast. To ensure that John gets the point, you add in, "This isn't a good year. The three-month forecast is predicting colder than average temperatures and more rain. We are supposed to blame someone called El Niño for messing up the Jetstream across the Atlantic, although how a Spanish child can have that effect on the weather is beyond me."

Mary turns her attention back to you. "What sort of budget have we got left? You've worked miracles so far; surely you can magic some free air tickets from someone who owes you a favour?"

John is shaking his head. "No, I'm not going to let you do this, Sherlock. Our destination is going to be a secret, Mary, and I am going to be the only one involved in making the decisions. Groom's prerogative."

A rather tense silence falls. You have your own reasons for wanting to know their destination but can hardly voice them. If John's resolve cracks —which is likely, given the size of Mary's pout—and opts for an overseas trip, this will be fraught with danger. In a number of foreign countries that could be on John's list your experience of chasing down the remnants of Moriarty's network left a group of discontented Fallen Angels who had escaped exposure. Who knows what they might get up to if they were to find out that the Watsons were within their grasp? Revenge against you by harming them has to be considered as a distinct possibility. If you know their destination in advance, a word to Mycroft will ensure that the umbrella of protection is not lost when the honeymooners leave the shores of Britain. Even better if you can steer them in the direction of a country with less potential for such a threat.

You decide to risk a few questions, see if you can plant a few seeds at least with Mary, who is highly likely to persuade John to look overseas. First, it will help to give her some ammunition about a stay-at-home honeymoon. "You need to consider a few things. First, your location is convenient to Stanstead airport, which means in the same time that it would take you to drive to Hampshire, you could be on a beach in the south of France. You could be in Greece by the time you could drive to Cornwall. Cheap flights are a free-for-all scramble in cattle-class, but I can give you the name of an agent who will find you highly discounted seats on proper full-service carriers." If John uses the agent, then you will be able to pinpoint their protection.

Mary is nodding encouragingly to John. "Take the number. Anything is better than Ryan Air or Easy Jet. This is our honeymoon, John."

Emboldened, you decide to give her an idea or two. "Greece in May is perfect. In the 20s, not humid, the water temperature is warm enough for swimming. Not crowded. There are plenty of islands to give you that get-away-from-it-all feeling without having to compromise on food and wine. Santorini is known as the Honeymoon island. The clifftop villas of the village of Oia are considered to be one of the most romantic destinations within a three-and-a-half-hour flight time from London." You write the name of the agent on a yellow sticky and hand it to Mary. "The same agent who does the flights, he can give you some hints. He's Greek."

And Demetrios really does owe you a favour, so choosing Santorini would ensure that his family would keep the Watsons safe, even if Mycroft's minions were to fail. Belt and braces - it is the only strategy to follow when it comes to keeping John safe from harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Georgian cases, Mycroft's involvement and how Sherlock starts to unravel the secrets his brother has been hiding for decades is told mostly in my story Magpies: Two for Joy, continuing in Watching Brief in the Got My Eye On You series. There is an important clue (a trailer, if you will) in this story that will play a role in Magpies: Five for Silver. Have you spotted it?


	20. Property

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two meanings to the word property. One definition is a thing or things belonging to someone (eg., chattels, movables, assets); the other is an attribute, quality, or characteristic of something (eg., the property of heat expands metal at uniform rates)

"Are you sure this is legal?"

John deserves the glare that Sherlock aims in his direction. "Legality is not the issue, John. The dog gets to choose."

They are in Hyde Park on an early morning in the first week of March. Sherlock is down on one knee, patting a handsome black Labrador dog, who is sitting in a relaxed way, enjoying the attention.

It had all started three days ago when Sherlock had admitted Skylar, the dog, and his owner, Roger Miles, to 221b. Miles was grateful; "No murder involved, Mister Holmes, so I am grateful that you could find the time to help me."

John has always known that Sherlock has a special rapport with dogs, especially Labradors, ever since he was first introduced to Bella, an aged chocolate Labrador at Parham, the country estate in West Sussex owned by Mycroft.* So it had not surprised him that Sherlock was willing to take the case.

Miles had come to own Skylar when he agreed to re-home the dog from the South East of England Labrador rescue charity. The dog had been found wandering loose in Maidstone, Kent, in a terrible condition. Dehydrated, emaciated, with several nasty wounds, the dog had obviously been feral for some time. It was terrified of any human, and had been caught stealing food from a rubbish can behind a takeaway chicken restaurant.

The retired accountant who had re-homed the dog said that he'd accepted the challenge of rehabilitating the dog in part because he'd lost his own Lab years before, but didn't want to start all over again with a puppy. "I'm too old now; I just want a companion to keep me company. Skylar doesn't like long walks, do you boy?"

Sitting quietly by Roger's side, Skylar was the picture of health. Roger had explained, "It took quite some time to coax him out of his fear. Good food, paying the vet bills to get him healthy again, lots of affection when he was ready for it — turned out well. I've had him for four years now. He still runs with a limp; permanent tendon damage on his front left paw, but he's not in pain anymore. We're suited for each other, as my hip's starting to wear out. Then three days ago, I received this through my letterbox."

He handed over a typed letter, with a solicitor's address at the top. Sherlock had scanned it and passed it over to John, who read it. A demand from someone claiming to be the dog's previous owner, saying that it had been stolen from their premises. The owner said that they'd spotted the dog on the UK Labrador Association's facebook page, where Roger was a member and had posted photos of Skylar. The owners were the Wenbury shoot, a large pheasant shoot, and claimed the dog was one of theirs, trained to work the five thousand acres during the corporate syndicate days. Kennel bred-and-trained, the pedigree dog had been stolen by "persons unknown" but the implication in the letter was that Roger himself might be prosecuted if he didn't return their property immediately. He was a valuable gun dog with field-champion bloodlines that they considered to be their property for breeding purposes.

Miles had been distraught. "They're right about the law; dogs are just property, and even if they are lost, stolen or re-homed, the original owner has the right to claim him back. But it doesn't seem fair, not to me or to Skylar. We've become great pals, and I'd hate to lose him. Is there anyway you can help us?"

Sherlock had asked whether the dog was microchipped.

"The vet said someone had cut it out of the back of his neck, presumably whoever stole him. I'm not sure that just looking at a photo on Facebook should be enough for them to claim him. When I tried to talk to them, the gamekeeper told me that they'd only deal with me through the solicitor." The dog must have detected Miles' distress because it looked up at him, and then put his head on the old man's knee. He rubbed the dog's ears, as he continued. "The solicitor doesn't care about what the dog had been through and how I brought him back to life. He says if I don't agree to hand him over immediately, then he'll see me in court. On my pension, I can't hire a lawyer to defend me and they'll win. But it doesn't seem right. I don't think it's in the best interests of the dog."

"Unfortunately, the judge has to deal with the law, Mister Miles," John had said at the time. "I don't see how we can help you."

"Not so fast, John. This is something I am going to ask you to leave with me for a few days, Mister Miles. Come back up to London again on Sunday with Skylar and we'll settle this matter."

No sooner had Miles left then Lestrade had phoned with a murder case, a particularly nasty one that had kept the Consulting Detective and his blogger busy

Three days later, John, Sherlock, Miles and Skylar are in Hyde Park, meeting the gamekeeper from the Wenbury shoot, Graham Thomas. A tall man with a weather-beaten ruddy complexion, the gamekeeper had driven up with his landrover and a crate to reclaim the dog.

"Mister Thomas." Sherlock offers his hand and the gamekeeper shakes it. "Frank Wallace speaks highly of you."

"And your reputation as a shot is well known, Mister Holmes. I am glad that you've brought this man to his senses and that the dog is going to be returned."

"Not so fast, Mister Thomas. To begin with, identification by a photograph is not easy."

"I hope you're not suggesting that all black labs look alike, sir. That would be rather foolish. I know the Wenbury blood line like the back of my hand. He's one of ours, for sure."

"What was his name?"

"Erindore Shadow of Belamont."

"That's the pedigree name; kennel?"

"Just Shadow. He's ours, Mister Holmes. If I need to go to the expense of a DNA test I will, but a court will give him back to us. You know the law."

"The law does not recognise that Mister Miles has rescued the dog, paid its vet bills, brought it back to health. You would not have a claim to make if it weren't for him."

"The solicitor said he won't accept any compensation for his out-of-pocket expenses. We even offered him a pick of the next litter."

"What price is fair for the love he will lose? He is too old to want to start over with a new pup." Some ten meters away, the dog is sitting quietly beside Roger Miles. Sherlock looks back at the gamekeeper. "You do know that the dog is permanently lame? He'll not work in the field again."

"Sad that; the bastards that stole him must have done it to him. No matter; he'll still be good breeding stock."

Sherlock sighs. "I'd like to show you something, Mister Thomas. Stay here, but when I signal call him to you."

John and he walked over to Mister Miles. "John, take Mister Miles ten meters further on. I will stay with Skylar. When I signal, you're to call him to you."

When the two are twenty meters apart, Sherlock stands back from the dog and drops his hand. Simultaneously, there is a whistle from the gamekeeper and a shout of "Skylar!" from Miles. The dog's head whips from side to side, turning first towards the whistle and then to his current owner. He stands up but doesn't move.

The gamekeeper repeats the recall blast on the whistle, as Miles shouts an even more frantic " _SKYLAR!_ " The dog turns and lumbers off towards the retired accountant, every stride signalling the fact that he is lame but intent on answering the call.

The gamekeeper closes the distance between him and Sherlock, as John comes back to him, too.

"What is the point of that little exercise? Of course, it's been years since he worked to a whistle. He'll need to be schooled back into proper obedience."

"A Labrador knows obedience, yes, Mister Thomas, but they also have the properties of love and loyalty, which were just demonstrated here. A lame dog in a working kennel is just a waste of food and energy. If Mister Miles allows you to bring the dog to whatever bitch you want him to breed with, surely it is better for the dog to continue living with him? Based on the evidence of what has been demonstrated here, I do believe that there is not a judge in the land who would not agree that this would be an equitable arrangement. Joint access is not unusual."

Thomas is watching Miles who is down on his knees hugging and petting the Lab, whose tail is wagging frantically. Skylar starts licking Roger's face.

Finally, the gamekeeper nods. "I'm not heartless, Mister Holmes. As long as we can breed him whenever and wherever he can stay."

A set of handshakes occurs accompanied by the exchange of contact details. Meanwhile, the property concerned is busy demonstrating another property of Labradors by heading over to some bushes for a good sniff and a pee.

On his blog, John describes it as a "win-win"; every dog wants to get his leg over, and this way, everyone is happy. He calls it "The Judgment of Skylar" and it proves very popular indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know more about why Sherlock has a thing for Labradors, head to my story, The Shooting Party.


	21. Sigh

"Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test."

Sherlock hears John's sigh and watches him drop his head in what he can only assume is shock. Around them, the other wedding guests are dancing away, but inside the strangely intimate bubble that surrounds him, John and Mary, it feels like everything is grinding to a halt.

In the seconds that lengthen into what feels like minutes if not hours, Sherlock realises that this is a new sigh, one he has not heard from John before. He replays the sound in his mind, testing its resonance, timbre and length of an aspirated breath, before cataloguing it and storing it carefully in the dictionary of John's sighs that he keeps on his Mind Palace hard drive.

Most people assume that Sherlock's memory is full of facts, of data in the shape of text or images, but there is a whole soundscape in there, too. John's sighs —or at least those uttered in Sherlock's hearing — are emotions without words. When they had first moved into Baker Street, he'd started the collection. He had quickly learned that the sigh John made when he drank the first cup of tea in the morning was completely different from the one he made when he had his last cup before bed. He had also realised fairly soon that there was a particular sigh that John made when Sherlock had done something to upset him, and that it was different from the one he made when irritated by what his flatmate or work colleague had done.

The sighs changed as familiarity shifted their relationship into a friendship. He'd learned to rely on the sound, too. John's long-suffering tone in his sigh became Sherlock's tip-wire, the signal that yet again he'd crossed the line between being obnoxious and more than a bit not good. As the showdown with Moriarty crept ever nearer, he'd heard the exasperation turn into anger, still expressed in the simple exaggerated exhale of John's breath, an unconscious act that told Sherlock more about what was going on in John's head than almost anything else he said or did.

When he was away masquerading as Lars Sigursson, he frequently consulted his dictionary of John's sighs, trying to infer from the situation what John's reaction would be, and therefore how to interpret whether Sherlock was doing something that John would have approved of, tolerated, or sighed in disappointment about, if he'd actually been present.

When he returned from the dead, Sherlock had been surprised to find that John's reaction was more physical than the mere respiratory exercise. John's simmering emotions at him boiled over on occasions; he put into words or actions what he was thinking, most of which was a strange combination of anger and disappointment, only just moderated by relief that Sherlock was indeed alive. But they didn't live together anymore, so it was hard to know. He thinks that maybe Mary had heard more of John's sighs about Sherlock than he had. When they were together, the sighs were less frequent.

Once the wedding planning had started, the sighs John released were more a case of letting off steam about the detail that was needed. These were frustrated sighs, little puffs of expressed breath to register impatience about tasting yet another piece of wedding cake, arguing about the guest list, getting measured for a tailor-made morning coat that John said would sit at the back of the wardrobe for the rest of his married life, if he had anything to say about it.

As Mary seemed little bothered by the sighs, Sherlock had come to terms with them, too. He assumed that John was devoting his emotional reactions to his wife-to-be, that Sherlock was no longer central enough to John's thinking, that he was no longer worthy of being directed by John's sighs.

It had been disconcerting at first, this emotionally distant John. Sherlock had come to realise that he'd missed those sighs.

So, when he hears John's sigh of astonishment and surprise about the news he is going to be a father, Sherlock files it away in the dictionary. He tries to explain, "W... th... the statistics for the first trimester are ..."

"Shut up." John seems to be struggling to come to terms with Sherlock's announcement. "Just shut up."

As is so often the case now, Sherlock's immediate reaction is to say, "Sorry."

John turns to Mary, "How did _he_ notice before me? I’m a bloody doctor."

Sherlock tries to assuage his annoyance. "It's your day off," which merely provokes John into snapping back at him, "It's _your_ day off."

Sherlock is shocked by everything that is happening. His deductions today have all seemed to go one step too far. At least John isn't angry at him for revealing it, nor is Mary by the look of shock on her face.

As he watches the two of them trying to come to terms with the fact that there will now be three of them, Sherlock wants to reassure them. "Don't panic."

John's denial —"I'm not panicking" — is immediately contradicted by Mary's "I'm pregnant — _I'm_ panicking."

Sherlock repeats what he said, adding emphasis, "Absolutely no reason to panic."

"Oh, and you'd know, of course?"

"Yes, I would. You're already the best parents in the world. Look at all the practice you've had!"

"What practice?"

"Well, you're hardly going to need _me_ around now that you've got a real baby on the way."

As their shock wears off, John and Mary start to smile, sharing the joy briefly with Sherlock.

When John turns back to Mary and asks if she's alright, she says "Yeah."

Neither of them hears the sigh that Sherlock makes before he tells them to go dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe a debt of gratitude to the Devere transcripts for dialogue from TSo3.


	22. Texture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In its original literal meaning, a ‘clew’ is a ball of yarn and it refers specifically to the woollen thread that according to Greek myth, Ariadne gave to Theseus to help him find his way out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth. In a metaphorical application of this myth, early modern writers use the term to describe something that provides guidance through existential challenges. Later, this use was extended to anything that might lead to the solution of a mystery or shed light on unexplained phenomena. And the spelling changed to "clue".

"I’ve written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibres."

You tell Mycroft that, only to hear Mrs Hudson ridicule you for doing so. But fibres matter. They are such an important part of forensic science that you are still sometimes shocked at how little people understand about the clothes they wear, the carpets and rugs they walk on, the curtains and furniture they live with. All of those tiny threads are vital clues. While they lack the immediate evidentiary value of say DNA or a fingerprint, fibres can carry DNA and fingerprints, as well as traces of things that were contained within them. And they can put the victim and the criminal in the same place, even at the same time, if fibres transfer between them.

For years, you've bemoaned the lack of imagination around this most important area. Forensic services all over the world operate to standard testing protocols, procedures that bring order and reliability to the evidence produced. But standards can also blind those who need to look more closely, which is why you'd gone to the trouble of testing all those fibre strengths, and looking at how those change when subjected to water, blood, heat and stress.

Lucky for you, both Mike Stamford and Molly had been willing to grant you access to the Barts labs so you could run procedures such as thin-layer chromatography and infrared spectroscopy. ISO standards exist to speed a lab's ability to identify polymers from optical data, as well as a whole group of additional analyses, such as microchemical tests, melting points and. Some of that you could do at Baker Street, but access to pyrolysis gas chromatography equipment was really helpful.

If it had meant that John had to sacrifice a grotty old sweater or two, well, it was for science and could help solve a murder. Sacrifices were needed. The fact that you'd never owned a polyester garment in your life meant that his wardrobe opened up endless experimental possibilities, something you had not realised would be such a benefit of flat-sharing. Of course, you miss having John living here now, for more reasons than that, but it is a contributing factor.

You wonder whether his anger at finding odd bits of his clothing being clipped, a thread pulled, a bit of yard unravelled would have been assuaged if you had given him credit on the articles written for the Chartered Society of Forensic Scientists, and the database you donated to the British Academy of Forensic Scientists.

Tensile strength was an amazing property, one under-appreciated by the crime scene investigators and forensic services. Of course, they don't like the idea of what is essentially a test to destruction, when the sample is subjected to a force that first elongates and then breaks the fibre. Yet, just that has proved to be crucial in a surprising number of cases. One in India had proved that the suicide of a famous actor was in fact murder because the tensile strength of the dressing gown could not have caused the ligature marks around his neck. Any idiot should have been able to see that at the crime scene rather than keep his fans hanging in suspense for days while the lab in Mumbai conducted tests.

And there it is. If you'd been there, one touch of the dressing gown sash would have been enough. What you had never explained to anyone, though, is that all those fibres had been tested by you for something far more idiosyncratic, data that will never appear on a database. It couldn't be reproduced by anyone else, so, had limited scientific value. Every single fibre you had tested for the blog had also been subjected to a sensory session to explore its texture and to familiarise yourself with it. You felt the fibre, first on your fingers, then rubbing it on the skin at the top of your cheekbones, next to your eyes, and then across your lips. All three places have the greatest number of touch sensors in a person's body and collect the greatest amount of data. Then there was smell and taste, all of which were catalogued and stored away. Then you subjected the fibres to heat and to water, after which you conducted the same tests. The discoveries were fascinating. Wet nylon smells different from wet rayon and entirely different from wet wool. What is called 'wool' is actually the spun hair of a huge range of sheep and goats, nearly all of which can be differentiated from each other by their texture and how they are spun.

So many fibres are transferred between a victim and a criminal through force. The feel of a cotton fibre that has been stretched to the breaking point is completely different from that of a polycotton blend. Angora wool stretches differently from merino wool, and Icelandic wool tastes different if the woven two-ply thread has been pulled apart. Camel's hair smells differently from Vicuna.

You know that you can tell the difference between all of these even if you are blindfolded; it's because you taught yourself this skill.

All these sensations were stored away, ready to be used. Why go to the expense of a lab test, when you can tell the story a fibre is telling you with one feel of its texture? So, when Mycroft asserts something is Peruvian, you can most certainly tell him that he is wrong; you are sure that it's Icelandic wool.


	23. Verbal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set in the aftermath of The Blind Banker

_"Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?"_

From the very beginning, Sherlock had warned him this might happen, but John had not quite understood it. When Sherlock retreated to his Mind Palace or lay semi-comatose on the sofa for hours at a time, John had just thought of it as being, well… _Sherlock._ What he had not grasped back then is that those quiet periods were not what Sherlock had been warning him about.

The first time Sherlock goes non-verbal, it takes John some time to realise that it is even happening. John is working at the surgery a lot, taking on extra shifts, covering for colleagues on sick leave, trying to re-build something of his relationship with Sarah after the debacle of her being kidnapped, threatened with death and rescued only in the proverbial nick of time. She hasn't given up on him entirely; they are still dating. He's even spent the night at her place a couple of times So, as he isn't around the flat for hours at a time, it doesn't occur to him that Sherlock would have been silent then as well as when he does make an appearance at the flat.

It takes a couple more days before he realises that Sherlock might actually be avoiding him. When the doctor comes down the stairs on his first proper day off in two weeks, it is to an empty flat. A quick conversation with Mrs Hudson on his way out to the shops (because yes, of course, the fridge is empty of anything edible yet full of odd body parts in unlabelled Tupperware containers) reveals that Sherlock had left at the crack of dawn. "I do wish he would learn not to slam the front door on his way out," she tuts. "It wakes me up every time."

Saturday passes in blissful peace. When he gets back from the shops, John fixes himself a full English breakfast, even though it is after eleven. _Brunch_ , he rationalises, followed by a leisurely read of the newspaper, then an afternoon catching two of Five Nations rugby matches. He texts Sherlock at five to see if he'll be back for dinner. When there is no reply, John fixes himself spaghetti Bolognaise, a bit of a treat because Sherlock didn't like the texture of minced beef. A glass of Chianti and a bit of telly mean that John passes the evening comfortably.

At nine pm, John texts Lestrade to see if there is a case that has swept up all of Sherlock's attention span. The reply ten minutes later is a tad worrying, because the DI said he's not seen Sherlock for days. John's second text of the day to Sherlock does not get a reply. For good measure, John calls his flatmate's number and leaves a terse voice message: _"Could do with some proof of life, Sherlock. Or is the Chinese circus back in town and this time it's you that's been kidnapped? Call me!"_

An hour later there is still no reply to either text or voicemail. An alarm bell goes off at that and John overcomes his scruples about contacting Molly this late to see if his missing flatmate is holed up at Barts, working on some gruesome cadaver or other. Sometimes it is hard to get a phone signal down there; mortuaries are notoriously difficult because so many are in basements.

"No, it's not too late to call. I'm home, curled up on the sofa with Toby. We're watching _All Creatures Great and Small_. Sorry, John; I haven’t seen Sherlock for days. Not since we had that drowning victim….um, I think it was about a week ago, maybe ten days. Can't be sure; does it matter which date? Er… I could look at the mortuary diary tomorrow if it's important?"

John reassures her that the date isn't important, but does tell her to call him if Sherlock gets in touch. "He's not answering his phone. I've been texting and calling him, but he's gone AWOL."

She tries to reassure him; "He's like a cat, John. He'll go missing for a while and then turn up tired and hungry. Toby did it to me last year. Just strolled in two weeks later, not in the least concerned that I'd been frantic, putting up posters everywhere, calling rescue charities. I was petrified."

Well, John isn't petrified and he's certainly not going to get too excited; Sherlock is not his responsibility.

But the silence is a niggling worry. The next day, also a day-off makes John a little more annoyed and alarmed. A whole weekend off work would have been a great chance to get stuck into a good case, but no chance of that if Sherlock couldn't be bothered to communicate with him. What is annoying is that John has had proof of life, at least, so being held captive is not an excuse. At some point last night when John was asleep, Sherlock had returned to the flat. The evidence is all over the kitchen table, which now sports an elaborate system of glass tubes, flasks and distillation set-ups. It isn't bubbling away, and the flask had been cold to the touch when John had come down in the morning. That turns his worry into irritation. It's as if Sherlock couldn't be bothered to communicate with him.

 _Two can play that game._ Sunday passes, Sherlock-less. John keeps himself busy with domestic chores: laundry, a bit of tidying, a stroll in Regent's Park, and a fish and chips supper.

When Monday morning arrives, John's resolve breaks. Returning to work at the surgery, if he checks his phone more often than normal, well, he has now left an increasingly annoyed series of texts and voice mail messages. Maybe one will get through his flatmate's thick skin. That rather uncharitable thought sends him off on an examination of his own failings. Had he said something or done something to piss Sherlock off? Is this going to end with a formal request that he leave Baker Street? He is barely able to concentrate on the afternoon's parade of patients' complaints. He keeps trying to recall what had happened the last time the two of them had actually spoken.

That night, rattling around a flat that is wrapped in increasingly uncomfortable silence, John starts to worry a lot more. This cold-shoulder might be because John has somehow failed, that he's no longer an acceptable flatmate, colleague or (dare he admit his own culpability in this?) _friend_? He'd been all too quick to correct Sherlock's use of the term, thinking that the smarmy git Sebastian Wilkes would dare to assume that friend meant a different sort of relationship than what he and Sherlock enjoyed. That case had ended almost two weeks ago, about the time that Sherlock had gone _incommunicado_.

The worries go round and round John's head as he prepares his supper. Had he inadvertently bollocksed up the best relationship he's had for years? Is the flat-share at risk? Is Sherlock punishing him for his _faux pas_ about friendship by working a case without him, because he no longer values his companionship? The thought is devastating and John kicks himself up one side and down the other as he paces the living room. Sherlock has made John's life bearable —no, better than bearable. Thrilling, fulfilling, fun. The thought of losing all that —of losing Sherlock —is too much to bear. He ends up in the hallway, face to the wall, banging his forehead against it. _Just talk to me, Sherlock. Let me explain; give me a chance to apologise._ He fires off a text to that effect.

There's no answer, of course, and John sets off on another round of pacing. Maybe it isn't as bad as he fears, maybe something has happened to Sherlock; a private case gone wrong could be behind his absence. Maybe he needs help, back-up. The more he frets, the more Sherlock's silence becomes evidence of something sinister.

At ten o'clock, after convincing himself that six days' and nights' worth of absence and silence justified extreme measures, John decides to call Mycroft. Surely, the man's surveillance would have kept an eye on his brother?

"Doctor Watson, to what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft's tone of voice has that undercurrent of patronising irony that the upper class seem to wield whenever they wanted to make someone else feel small.

"Do you have eyes on your brother? Because he's AWOL, missing-in-action, non-communicative, or any other phrase you'd care to insert in there."

"I can assure you that he is alive and functioning."

"Then why can't he be arsed to answer? I've sent him a dozen texts and three voice mail messages."

There is a bit of silence on the line, enough to make John worry that he might be getting the silent treatment from Mycroft as well. Then, "My brother can be rather uncommunicative at times; surely you have noticed that before now?"

John risks a bit of truth. "This is way beyond the sofa sulk or post-case crash. Is he pissed off at me about something? Is that the problem? For Christ's sake, Mycroft, get him to talk to me. If I can make it right, apologise, whatever it takes…"

"Don't assume the worst, Doctor. It is highly unlikely that it has to do with you. He does this —goes non-verbal— on occasions."

There was something in that statement that makes John ask "What does that mean?"

An audible sigh is followed by "Let's just say that he _can't_ talk; it's not a matter of wanting or not wanting. He is incapable of it, at times. And when it happens, he avoids being near anyone, because it is too distressing for him. Don’t take it personally."

There is something so odd in that statement, but before John can parse it out, he blurts out, "Then why doesn't he text?"

"Non-verbal is not the same as non-oral."

John is utterly confused. "That… needs explanation."

"Verbal is the ability to communicate in _words_ , Doctor. Either spoken or written. Oral is the ability to _speak_ words. Two different things. In Sherlock's case, oral speech is beyond him at times like these, and writing, too, so _non-verbal_ is the correct diagnosis."

It is the last word that finally drags out of John's memory a list of symptoms. _Oh, shit._ John whispers the question, "He's autistic, isn't he?" It's not really a question, more a statement of the bleeding obvious, now that the dots have finally, finally connected.

"He would not thank you for that conclusion, Doctor Watson, and if you wish to remain sharing a flat with him, you will not use that word in his hearing."

"Nothing wrong with his hearing then?"

"No, he will have understood every text, every message you left. But he will not be able to respond. It's not a question of reaching for a word and not finding it. It's more fundamental. He can process everything incoming, but nothing can emerge, as if the entire verbal response programme has been temporarily corrupted. _System error on the hard drive_ is what he calls it."

"How long does it last?"

"That depends on what triggered the episode." John can visualise the shrug that accompanies Mycroft's reply. "Are you aware of anything particularly distressing occurring? It can stop him cold, render him incapable of uttering a word or writing it if something like that happens. Or there can be a delayed reaction, a couple of weeks later, when he's tried but failed to process such an event."

It doesn't take two seconds for John to visualise such a scenario. No matter how bravado Sherlock's behaviour with General Shan had been, the fact is that both he and Sarah had been minutes, even seconds away from death when he'd showed up in the Blackwall tunnels.

"Okay. Got it. What snaps him out of it?"

"Good question. There is no one answer. Time, usually. Or a distraction. Badgering him about it won't help; it can actually add to the anxiety. The longer it goes on, the harder it is for him to remember how to talk. You and I might take for granted our verbal abilities. He does not. It's a manual process for him; he has to expend effort to communicate in ways that you and I cannot understand. Sometimes he just needs to take a break."

John tries to process the idea of how talking can create anxiety, but struggles. He decides he's heard enough. "Thanks, Mycroft, for the information. There are times when I feel like living with Sherlock needs to come with an instruction manual."

"Good night, Doctor Watson."

Before he goes to bed, John sends another text.

**22:08 Just ignore all previous texts from me. I'm an idiot, as you like to point out.**

Twenty-one hours later, John receives a text.

**19:08 Meet me at St Katharine's Dock, Dickens Inn. Murder disguised as a suicide. SH**


End file.
